Sanguine Analysis
by Ryuuza Kochou
Summary: A wounded and discharged war veteran takes a job as a medical examiner and meets a very interesting consultant over a body in Lauriston Gardens. AU Modern retelling of 'A Study in Scarlet' with our two favourite boys and a tale of mystery & bromance...
1. Chapter One: Observations on Dr Watson

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Non-graphic violence, dark and adult themes, very light bad language

Authors Notes: Whoowhee, this one took me for a ride! I started writing, and it just took over; but I sure had fun doing it. I do love Sherlock Holmes. I loved the books in high school and still do; I loved the Granada version and I loved the new movie as well. I seesawed back and forth about which category to put this one in, but eventually I conceded that it was probably closer to the movie than the series or the books; just because the movie also had a modern feel about it.

Oh, and does anyone else think it just a little sad and worrying that Dr Watson was an Afghanistan war veteran and we still haven't stopped waging war in that place? I did.

Please enjoy!

Sanguine Analysis by Ryuuza Kochou

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Chapter One: Observations on Dr John Watson

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John Watson, MD, was surprised to discover on the carrier ride home that he did not remember much about the worst day of his life. Usually when a day is at its worst, the details were etched into steel on a hard wall of his memory; but even with his eidetic memory there was nothing but a confused tangle of screaming and gunfire, the air a blender made of fire and shrapnel and bullets and blood. He wonders idly if the nausea that leapt upon him like some jumping beast when the orderlies put down rat poison in the field hospital was a part of the infection and fever, or just the memory of all that blood spilling in the dust as the anti coagulants from the rat poison covering the shrapnel did their work.

The pain didn't count as a memory. The pain was still happening.

At the airport in London, a civilian flight to round off what had been a sleepless and hellish journey, an anti-war protester comes up to hurl epithets at Rathomy as the big man struggled to navigate around his missing leg with his crutches. Watson endures starbursts of agony as he leaps for the crippled man – or, the other crippled man. He doesn't know what instinct drives the tortuous act, what indicator told him the other soldier was going to blow. The set of the broad shoulders, the turning of his one remaining ankle, Watson doesn't know. All he knows is that Rathomy has a family waiting for him just as crippled by the war as he is, the protester is a kid they once all were and the blows won't make the pain from the ghost of his missing leg stop, not for a second. He hangs onto the bigger man, his shoulder somehow suffering worse than when the hollow point ripped through it, if that's even possible. He yells in his best Major voice for the Corporal to _stand to attention_ and God help him he feel like the biggest heel on the planet when the man wavers as he tries to follow orders, his responses trained into a whole body and now lost on a body missing only ten percent. Ten percent was all it took.

But the absolute worst part, Watson knew as he ended up in an ungainly heap on the ground, his body shaking from the pain, was that Rathomy didn't really care. He didn't care about the kid, who stared at them torn between sneering and embarrassment. He didn't care about his body or his wounds, all of them: his ghost leg, the pain, the scars on his spirit, the gaping hole where his future now was. He just wept and wept and wept for the brother that wouldn't even bring his scars home while Watson held on.

As the paramedics loaded the broken Rathomy into the ambulance, Watson took his one bag over his good shoulder and his cane and forced himself to take every step for himself, no matter the pain that sucked the blood from him like a vampire. As he walked he thought about survival and bulwarks of compassion and ghosts. Watson truly believed in ghosts. He believed ghosts weren't as simple as life and death. Ghosts were lost limbs and lost nights and lost futures. Ghosts were pasts and healthy bodies that haunted the dusty fortresses of memory. As the cold became a rabid animal that bit into him, Watson never thought he'd prefer the kinds that were actually dead.

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After spending the night staring at his hotel room walls, Watson went to his storage locker to stare at his boxes. It wasn't very big. He'd called himself a young man when he opened and packed this cell like room, almost twice as big as it needed to be, but the truth of it was he was still a young man, very young. Age on the inside didn't count. He felt even more intimidated by the world now than he had been then, fresh out of university and prepared to face the life reprogramming of the armed forces. He wondered what aspect he had lost in that time to make him feel such fear. After the war, horrors and all, he was wiser and much more educated than he had ever been. Surely the more you know, the more prepared you were to face life? Looking at what then seemed like too much bulk for a young man to carry and now seemed like a meagre collection for what felt like such a long life, Watson wasn't sure about that. Look at this. This was the abandoned detritus of a young and footloose student, diligent and well read, but not as travelled or as trained as the soldier who came back. What was this kid prepared for? Not for a destroyed shoulder and a braced leg, that was for damn sure.

_Focus on the positives_. That was what his physical therapist said to him. _I don't care how bad you feel or how bad it gets, John. Now you can walk on a civilian street and buy yourself a coffee made by someone who wants you to have a good coffee and not just stay awake. That's a positive. You can walk down that street and not worry about getting shot or stepping on a mine. That's a positive. You can walk, John. That's a positive. Focus on the positives John. Never forget that it's not all bad news._

No, bad news came in fat envelopes with words like 'discharge' in them.

Watson sighed and shook himself. He was, at heart, an optimist. He _did_ focus on the positives. He focused on the positives that he was able to help others obtain. That gave him a sense of personal satisfaction just as good as a patient in full recovery. He thought of Rathomy weeping at the airport and thought this was no time to lose that trait.

So what did he have? _The shoulder was blown out, literally, trapezius, deltoid, scapula bone and all, so rigged up with so many pins that his shoulder x-rays looked like construction scaffolding. A severed and repaired gastrocnemius and peronus longus with an incomplete fracture of the lateral and medial condyles, requiring a brace and a cane and an open wound to his dignity as an athlete...former athlete._

_He had no kith or kin in London._

_Positives, John!_

Watson thought about it. The WPC was taking care of his benefits and medical bills. It wasn't much, with the economy the way it was, but it was something. He had savings to last him a little while, even with the gambling.

It wasn't the pokies and slots variety, just the tracks and the card halls. It wasn't even a hobby. It just felt really good to take a risk that didn't have the possibility of ending in a spray of red. It felt just as good to lose as it did to win. When he lost, all he felt to a tremendous sense of relief that he had nothing important on the table to lose.

He looked at all the stuff a young ghost had left behind. Young doctor stuff rather than young soldier stuff. Well....it was a start.

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Bulwark of compassion. That's what he needed, he had decided. Help others and you ultimately helped yourself.

He set out to help others, but found they were too busy trying to help him. Victims didn't need to help, that's what he was learning. He was learning what _victim_ really meant. That certainly wasn't a positive.

From the outset Watson had refused to accept the mantle of victimhood with any grace. He tipped the script pills down the drain and told himself he'd live with every sharp, red hot needle of pain. He lived on analgesics and turning up the heat so high that he dreamed of deserts, trying to keep the biting animal of the cold at bay. One day, he told himself after a bad night, one day I'll have to go out and let myself get savaged by it. But at the moment he was still getting used to the stranger in the mirror and could only deal with one crisis at a time.

He fell back on his survival training; food, shelter, mission. Food was easy; even better, it was a positive. He liked a world where fresh food was a matter of course rather than a rare and coveted treat.

Shelter was proving to be disheartening. He didn't want to stay in the hotel forever. London was home base now, and Watson liked a space to call his own. The hotel was clean and serviceable, but impersonal. He needed to put the young doctor's stuff up on the walls. He needed to know he could call at least a part of that spirit back.

Mission, well...the mission was work. Gainful employment. The bulwark of compassion, helping others to help himself. But who wanted to hire a doctor who looked like he belonged in the next bed? The physical therapist was painfully neutral on whether he would fully regain use of the arm that was attached to the wreck of his shoulder. He volunteered at the veteran wings at the hospital, if only to remind himself he was a doctor, but every time he went he came away reminded of eyes and faces no longer there to see, and every time he felt like he was just pretending and they were just humouring him. That, he decided, was not a positive.

As he stared over the newspapers accumulated over the month, covered with marks and scratchings, he realized he was in a no-win scenario. To get shelter, he needed money. To get money he needed work. To get work he needed a working body, the lack of which was why he needed work and shelter in the first place. He was a doctor and a soldier. He didn't know how to be anything else. And now it seemed as if he couldn't do either.

He had that thought while he struggled to tie his bootlaces, and nearly cost himself a glazier throwing the boot across the room. Afterwards, he felt ashamed. He always hammered into his patients that despair was just cheap rotgut and you should never let yourself get drunk. When he looked at the boot lying across the room, he felt like a hypocrite.

As it turned out, he might be low on kith and kin but not on acquaintances. He had forgotten them; not because he did not care for them, it was simply that they had belonged to a young doctor and he had yet to call that spirit to him.

He was in the cafe around the corner, picking up a cappuccino before trying at the hospitals again (what can he say, he was either stubborn enough to teach to rocks, or a glutton for punishment, or both). Now good coffee, he could agree with the therapist, was definitely a positive.

"Watson? John Watson?"

It's been so long since anyone has used his name without title or rank, and for a moment Watson thought the call was not for him. But he turns and is reminded of books and libraries and exams of a young doctor. The spirit wasn't there yet, but just for a moment the scent of it was in the wind.

"Stamford?"

"It _is_ you! Good grief, good fellow, I confess I wasn't entirely sure! You didn't look like that the last time I saw you!"

Ah, Stamford. Same annoyingly cheerful, energetic, unambitious, boyish manner, tempered by what might have been called wilful tactlessness if it wasn't for the sparkling childlike grin that completely removed any doubt that rudeness was in any way intended.

"I know what you mean," Watson replied dryly. It was dry, too. His voice seemed barely used since he'd arrived back home. And he did know exactly what Stamford meant. He could still count his ribs and vertebrae in the mirror even after a month and a half of regular good food. He'd never looked this way, ever, in his life. The sleek muscle tone he used on the rugby field was just another ghost.

But it was good to chat with Stamford; Stamford who knew him as a person and not a profession, however superficially. They bantered back and forth about the good old days, and Watson surprised himself by feeling very little bitterness or self-pity. When Stamford asked about his Watson's own life, Watson was glad to finally put into effect his promise to himself, which was to look his questioners in the eye and say without anger, or blame, or regret, what had happened to him while serving his country. He took his successful attempt as a positive. Each time he said it, he was sure it would get easier.

Of course, this lead to talking about his current status in which Watson tried to be completely honest, because he was genuinely an honest man, while trying to sound upbeat. Any disheartenment he felt was a burden he refused to share.

Stamford, it turned out, was a man with an answer.

"If you're looking for work in the medical field, my friend, I may be able to help you with a job in my area of expertise," Stamford offered. "It's not exactly general practice, but it's in the field. You need a lot of money to start or buy a practice these days, and working in the hospitals? Forget it. With the financial crash, hospitals aren't hiring. Hell, no one is hiring, anywhere."

"If no one is hiring, where is this job you offer?" Watson thought maybe Stamford could be tactful if he chose, because he had to realize that Watson was not the picture of health most doctors needed to be. "Where is there a position that ten people wouldn't be clamouring for before me? Let's face it; I'm not at my most impressive right at the moment."

Stamford gave a short bark of laughter. "Let's just say that appearance isn't worth the proverbial three pound note where I work. And the position is, in fact, mine. I'm moving out to the lazy countryside; I'm sick of London. My wife is sick of London. A small hamlet, that's the ticket. My position will be on the market soon, but I know you, Watson, and you're a solid fellow; and, seeing at how you rousted me off a bar room floor so that I would not miss my anatomy finals, I'd say I owe you one. I'd be happy to recommend you."

Watson waved a hand, flushed. "I only did that to see if you could actually pass while that hung over," he dismissed airily while Stamford grinned. "But I won't lie to you; I need whatever opportunity can be provided. Where do you work? Not a hospital, from what you said."

"With the police," Stamford look a long gulp of his coffee. "I'm attached to the coroner's office; medical examiner. Like I said, not exactly general practice."

Watson felt let down. He was not in the right place, mentally or emotionally, to be surrounded by death again; he'd always preferred living people. On the other hand, he was keenly aware of a diminishing bank account. He was rapidly heading into beggar and not chooser territory. "It's been a long time since pathology in medical school," he pointed out, not indicating he was for or against. "Are you sure I'd qualify?"

Stamford shrugged. "It wasn't so long ago that the training is outdated. My boss says since I'm abandoning ship I have to help in the process of replacing myself. You might need to take a course or two, but that'd be nothing new. Our office has a lot of turnover and you wouldn't be the first examiner taught on the fly. Plus, you're meticulous and reliable and punctual and diligent; I never once saw you miss a class, tutorial, week's readings or a lab, and you handled medicine and a part time rugby career. I could pick a worse replacement. They've got to make me look good." He gave a wink.

Watson grinned. "That's certainly a priority."

"Look, Dr Nokey will have final say but he'll listen to my recommendation. Come on, let me pay back my debt before I disappear into obscurity."

"And get out of interviews."

Stamford nodded solemnly. "And that, of course."

Watson laughed.  
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It's not quite he smooth ride that Stamford blithely describes. Doctor Nokey is an old man, with the crotchetiness and pride that old age brings, which was fine with Watson. The man was a brilliant pathologist, and he could actually care less about Watson's physical state. After a solid month of rejections, that's a positive.

After being glared at and interrogated by a truly impressive set of eyebrows, he is on probation. For a week he does nothing but work in the morgue, learning over Nokey's shoulder. He'd lied or omitted or _something_ to Stamford when he spoke about his pathology experience; his last autopsies were under a year ago, when he was drafted into service to identify and pronounce cause on battle field and civilian casualties, so he had been certified for pathology. Record, everything in pathology was about record. What happened when you got there, as opposed to how the hell you got there.

It turned out that the army had made him a ballistics expert, if only by accident, and Nokey needs one of those. He starts going out with Stamford to scenes in the latter man's last weeks, learning procedures. The blood pooling, the viciousness, the children, the old....it's not a positive. He squanders what amounts to what will be his first pay after the first day, after he wakes up shaking and sweating and ends up in the bathroom, trying to scrub the blood off. He doesn't even remember where he lost it; the next time he looks at his bank account, it's gone.

He does remember the thugs that accosted....or at least, tried to accost him on the way back from whatever den of iniquity he stumbled into. There were no taunts and no leers, just an inefficient pincer from both sides. Too bad for them he was a soldier. Inefficient tactics had long ceased to hold sway over his fear. It had been too long since the man trying to kill him had been an amateur.

Afterwards, he lay in the gutter next to his attackers, his old wounds hurting much worse than his new ones. He guessed that was a positive hiding in a negative. There was an upper limit to pain and the old pain lessened the new pain. The two sides cancelled each other out. It wasn't anything. It just was.

He began to think about the paperwork required to carry his gun again. He'd left it alone in the storage locker. He didn't want to have it near him when the bad nights came. It was too easy.

How the hell did he get here?

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Bulwark of compassion, Watson thinks on the day he found out about Rathomy's suicide; the neat, polite little card which told him to, please, not come to the funeral. He needs it. He needed to help people to help himself. He couldn't do that in this job. He needed to know he was helping a living person, not just mitigating the violation of a dead one. He feels like a failure as a soldier, as a protector, every futile, cold corpse that comes his way. He's tried all the arguments; that there are living people who need to know what happened to the dead, that need justice and closure, that they're the same as every soldier who came back to England staring at the inside of a body bag; they need to be bought home, somehow. The arguments don't stick. The weepers come and go, the numb just sign the forms carelessly, those so steeped in tragedy seem only to care about the money, and then there are those to whom no one comes at all...he's just a bearer of bad news in a bad world. It's not a positive. Even his wagonloads of ghosts feel like they're fading away.

It's on the tip of his tongue every day to tell Stamford and Nokey that the job doesn't suit; then he looks at his yo-yoing account, the product of bad nights and nightmares and pain, and realizes it is better to at least endure. Even if it's bad, even if it drains like blood from a bullet wound, it still keeps him anchored somewhere. Freedom, he was realizing, freedom from order and rank and procedure wasn't actually _freeing, _it was just a lack of control.

Again, John Watson must endure.

Stamford walks in abruptly, already halfway into packing his desk. "We've got a live one...well, you know."

Watson looks over at him from where he's filling out paperwork. "I have a feeling that joke is going to get old. I'm almost done."

"Nokey's happy with you....well, insofar as he's happy with anyone. You can do good work here."

Watson wondered if his ambivalence was so obvious that Stamford was still trying to sell this job. "Well, now I've got employment, all I need now is a place to stay."

"No luck?" Stamford looked over at the newspaper on the desk. It wasn't Watson's desk. Not yet.

"In this city a cot in the back of a bar is too expensive," Watson cast an unfriendly look at the unhelpful paper. "There are a few good places, but the only way I can afford it is to split the costs with someone."

Stamford's brow wrinkled. "You know, that's the second time today I've heard that."

Watson, rising slowly and reaching for his cane, pauses. "You know someone looking to share? Great, who is he?"

Stamford's young face twists into an odd grimace. "I don't think you'd like him." He grabs his medical bag.

"Look, after having maids rifling through my underwear every second day and banging my shins on the damn crooked cupboard door almost every night, I don't care if the man is a serial killer. I need a place!"

"You might prefer a serial killer after this guy, especially when he starts testing his poison compounds on you."

Watson stared at the other man, waiting for that to make sense.

Stamford just shrugs. "I don't mean that he does it maliciously, or anything. He'd probably test them on himself if he thought he could write about the effects while puking his guts up. He's kind of a science nut, emphasis on nut. The man's mad. You'll understand when you see him."

"He works here?" Watson asked, surprised. He was sure he'd met everyone in the morgue department.

"No."

"Forensics?"'

"No."

"The police?"

"_Hell_ no," Stamford chuckled, amused at some inner vision.

Watson shook his head and hefted his field kit over his shoulder. "So given that my social circle is composed of exactly you, Dr Nokey and the rather unsociable inmates of the morgue, why, exactly, would I meet him?"

"He's a kind of...specialist, I suppose. I can't really say what his actual job is though," Stamford shrugged. "He just kind of hangs around."

"The department?"

"The crime scenes. At least when he's not here instead, beating the corpses with blunt instruments for research purposes. Come on, we'd better go." Stamford didn't see the look of astonishment on Watson's face as he hunted for the departmental car keys.

"Where to?"

"Some half rotted old tenement in Lauriston Gardens. They want at least two examiners there, apparently there's some very high level victim involved, so all of homicide is on deck. Nokey's doing some family scandal on the other side of town, so guess who's lucky?"

Watson sighed. What did Stamford think he'd been trying to figure out since he got home?

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End Chapter One


	2. Chapter Two: Mr Sherlock Holmes

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

...

Chapter Two: Mr Sherlock Holmes

...

Lauriston Gardens was just the kind of place rich people don't want to see; it reminded them of what happened when the money was all gone. The narrow but tall brick buildings set back from the street in a stubby laneway were once respectable and well ordered, but now were ground down by time and ravaged by lack of care. Rust and faded paint scaled down the walls that wild grasses and thistles climbed from below. Some desultory effort had been put into trying to mitigate the damage in the two houses on the tiny lane that were occupied, but people hadn't bought here with the idea towards improvement. The others had faded signs asking, against all probability, for someone to spend money on them.

This place was like Watson's hotel room. This was shelter. This wasn't home.

It was ringed with police cars and sedans with the lighting sets flashing. The morgue van was on it's way, and from the look of things they'd have to move cars to get it through the narrow lane. As it was Stamford had to park outside the lane entrance and they were forced to walk all the way down to number three.

Putting on foot covers was an interesting feat with one leg braced; it had taken three weeks with the occupational therapist to discover a method. He remembered hopping and falling about his hotel room, practising. As it was, it still takes over a minute to perform a function most can do in seconds. Watson tries not to let the eyes on him bother him.

He looked up in time to see the lead detectives gather everyone for a briefing. The man in charge was a short, lean, dark haired man with an almost nervy sort of energy which, combined with sharp, angular features gave him an almost ferret like air. Grimacing behind him was a larger, broader man; not fat, but built squarely, blonde and bearded neatly. Watson put them at mid-to-late thirties; both had detective badges clipped to their persons.

"Alright, listen up you lot," The ferrety man spoke over the crowd of technicians and constables with an unexpectedly powerful voice. "We've stepping into a pile of midden here. In that house, suspected but not confirmed, is a foreign national belonging to our cousins across the pond, America. I don't think I need to tell you they are not happy to hear about their citizens shuffling of the mortal coil far from home. As we speak the upper classes are getting ulcers from the US Consulate, and when they get ulcers they like to pass them around. So this scene has to be tighter than a miser's fist, understand? Everything you find, _anything_ you find, gets bagged, checked in, and double marked, no exception."

The blonder man rolled his eyes. "If we let anything slip through our fingers on this, the lords will let us know in no uncertain terms; and if I have the person responsible for that in front of me, the Americans wrath with be a day at the seaside by the time I'm finished with them. You have your assignments, you know your jobs. Report anything strange to Lestrade or myself. Get moving, before the press descends."

The gaggles of blue spread out. The two medical examiners approached the Detective Inspectors, though warily. The two older men where having a fierce, _sotto voce_ argument.

"_I can't believe you called him in!_" the blonder man hissed to his companion vehemently.

"_I don't like it any more than you do, man, but by Gods, this is the kind of case that is going to be a mile of rough road! Of course I called him!"_ the man called Lestrade threw up his hands with resigned force._ "Let him have his gloat, and then he can clean up this mess quickly and quietly with the minimum of fuss! The uppers don't care how we handle it, just so long as it's handled! Besides, have you any better suggestions, pray?"_

"Now _see_ here you..." the blonde man broke off as he realized he'd raised his voice, and there were two medicos standing before him trying not to look as if they were eavesdropping.

"Good morning Inspector," Stamford covered smoothly. "Care to direct us to our client?"

"Doctor," the blonde man nodded, before turning his eyes to Watson. "_Doctors_, sorry."

"My apologies; gentlemen, meet Doctor John Watson. He'll be my replacement, attached to homicide," Stamford clapped Watson on his good shoulder, for which he was thankful.

Watson was hit with a double stare of analysis for the two older men, and grimaced inside. He was going to have to get used to people dissecting his appearance if he was going to be working around detectives for a living.

The blonde man held out a square hand. "Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson, at your service. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade, my partner."

Lestrade proffered his own hand. "Temporarily, at least. You're the Doctor Watson that was mugged were you?"

Watson grimaced. "Yes, Inspector."

Lestrade sent him a measuring look, and Watson forced himself not to fidget. Lestrade gave a noncommittal grunt, and then gestured to the dusty stairs.

"Doctors, step this way; we need a definitive cause of death and a positive ID if possible; we're not quite sure how the victim ended up here, as this place is currently listed as unoccupied. No one has disturbed the body, but forensics has already done their sweep so everything is on record. Feel free to move things around, but try to keep track of what you move. He's upstairs."

So that was that. Watson felt glad they hadn't asked any probing questions. The detectives he'd met so far hadn't been able to resist. He wrapped a spare foot cover over the tip of his cane, and followed them up.

The room above was derelict and ill used, containing dusty and cobwebbed shelves, moth eaten drapes over grimy windows, gritty floorboards and little else. The eye was drawn to two things instantly; the grisly, red-brownish, crude letters spelling _RACHE _across one wall and the dead body.

Some deaths looked peaceful; even when the end itself had been violent, the visage of the deceased could still be serene – untroubled at last. This was not one of those. The victim, past middle age, lay in a knotted contortion of pain in the upstairs sitting room, lying on one side, limbs convulsed and face twisted in agony. It was impossible to tell whether he was handsome or not; he certainly wasn't handsome enough to mitigate the throes of death. Whoever he was, he was probably a lot happier wherever he had gone, than being inside his tortured mortal shell.

Ignoring the other techs and officers in the room, they knelt by the body; in Watson's case it was more of a knee dropped crouch. His brace was a slightly more metallic version of a medial unloading brace, which at least gave him some use of his knee joint, if a stiff one.

Stamford did all the standard things – checked pulse, took a liver temperature – while Watson took note of the surroundings while he slipped on his gloves. There was blood spatter all around the body but no pooling, which indicated a mortal wound but also that the body had been moved. Watson frowned at the remains; from the blood settling he could see at the back of the neck it didn't look like he'd been moved. It looked like he'd died where he'd dropped. Appearances could be deceiving, though.

"Hmm, liver temp is about thirty degrees," Stamford reported.

"Combine that with pallor, lividity and," Watson gently attempted to manipulate one thrown out limb. "Rigor mortis starting to set in, this happened five to seven hours ago," Watson checked his watch. "It's seven thirty now, so time of death between, let's say, between midnight and two."

"The usual hour for sordid crime," Stamford commented.

Watson checked under the eyelids. "Bloodshot, not haemorrhaged. Judging by the smell on his lips, he might have been drinking." Or crying, Watson told himself, looking at the salt crusted lids. But that could have happened involuntarily while he died. It certainly hadn't been a quick death. "He's dressed for a night out." He added, indicating the formal suit the victim wore.

Stamford was packing up the temperature probe when he suddenly reached inside the man's shirt to a hidden pocket on the inner side for valuables. "Passport," he called out.

"Bloody hell, so much for hope," Lestrade swore, coming forward with an evidence bag and directing the booklet in open to the ID page. "Drebber, Enoch J. Late of Salt Lake City, Utah." He held up the photo ID to Gregson, and the two squinted from it to the victim.

"Hard to tell from the death mask," Gregson sighed. "But it looks be our man. I'll give the consulate a call, see if we can't get dentals. Damn it, I was hoping the card we found on the stoop was just coincidence."

"Really, Inspector. By now you should know there is no such creature," a sardonic voice drifted in from the doorway. Watson looked up in surprise.

Coming into the room was a tall, spare, scarecrow of a man, dark haired and pale faced in a way that suggested he didn't see much sunlight. He dressed neatly but negligently in a suit, and strode into the scene with a brisk, wiry energy that radiated from the grey of his eyes and from the sheer power of his movement. He had a presence, Watson could feel it immediately. He was a personality that filled the room from edge to edge.

The two detectives in the room looked undecided on whether the newcomer was welcome or not. They certainly didn't look entirely happy.

"And while I am instructing you on proper investigative attitudes," the newcomer continued with acid arrogance, "You might want to have some of your people go down to make casts of the footprints in the dried puddle that was the dead grass bed at the end of street, that is assuming no one has yet clod hopped all over them. They show killer and victim both. I've marked them, but since every other print has been obliterated by your department's overeager trampling I can't guarantee their continued survival."

Gregson cursed. "I'll see to it, assuming they are what you say. Are you certain?"

Lestrade winced.

The wiry man gave an offended snort. "Please don't confuse my methods with your textbook spouting technicians, Inspector. Your people pulled straight up to the door and stampeded in, everyone coming after you parking further down the street as they came, obliterating anything useful on the laneway, but luckily for you the killer and the victim came here in a taxi, an older model from an independent company, I'd say, that suffered a flat quite recently given the fact that it's using it's spare tyre on the road. I've marked those tracks too. They started from the end of the lane and walked from there, since this alley is a dead end and the taxi wouldn't come up here. The prints are quite fresh. Look at the boots of the dead man, the mud therein is quite distinctive, wouldn't you say? Now that I've finished explaining your job to you, would you please..." he waved a sarcastic hand at the door.

Gregson hurried out, either eager to save evidence or get out with some dignity intact. The newcomer made a face at the broad retreating back before whirling on Lestrade. The two began a quiet conversation wherein Lestrade held up the passport for inspection.

"Who is that?" Watson asked surreptitiously to Stamford while the others were engaged. Holmes took a magnifying glass from his pocket and gave the bloody slogan on the wall a quick glance that was over in less than three seconds. "Another detective?"

Stamford gave a rueful grimace. "You know the man I was talking about needing accommodation?" He nodded in the newcomer's direction.

Watson's eyebrows rose. "That's him?" he asked, while Stamford nodded. "Well, he's certainly a clear thinker at least."

"If you value your continued sanity, don't tell him that," Stamford warned half jokingly, opening up his full kit. He braced a hand at the victim's shoulder, preparing to turn him over.

"If you value _my_ sanity, Stamford, I will thank you not to disturb the integrity of my scene," a sardonic rejoinder drifted down from on high. Watson was startled. The man had moved like a cat.

"Sorry, Holmes," Stamford replied, grinning. He didn't seem at all fazed by the man's overbearing tone. "I didn't realize you'd come to claim another one." He gestured to Watson. "I'd like you to meet Dr John Watson..."

"Your replacement. I did warn you that living in the foundry district would be detrimental to your wife's health."

"Yes, you did," Stamford sighed ruefully. "Watson, I'd like you to meet my acquaintance, Mr Sherlock Holmes."

_Sherlock, seriously?_ was Watson's first thought. He felt the sharp grey eyes give him a lightning quick dissection, shorter but more penetrating than the detectives had given him downstairs. Holmes raised a sharp eyebrow. "You've been in Afghanistan, I perceive."

Watson blinked. "Where did you hear that, Mr Holmes?"

A look of amusement briefly passed across the other man's face. "I see more than I hear. Now then, let us see what we have..."

The extraordinary man then proceeded to crouch down and do an inch by inch examination of the body and it's surrounds with a lightning energy; brief periods of stillness followed by sharp strikes of movement. Watson sat back and looked to the others in the room, waiting for someone to restore protocol, but no one did. Watson was nonplussed. He felt there was an act going on in front of him, and he hadn't been given his script.

Holmes looked up with a strange look. "I am dissatisfied. I am extremely dissatisfied." He cast his grey eyes around the room, searching feverishly for something. "Too much is missing here."

Holmes made a violent motion and overturned the body, to which Watson was forced to move. They had not finished as yet. "Sir, can you please unhand the patient? The medicos have got the finish the job before anyone else can take a look." He reached across the body to grab Holmes by the wrist, arresting his movement.

"There's too much missing here, doctor," Holmes looked at the iron hand gripping him, and then back to Watson's face in a condescending manner that would set teeth on edge if it hadn't been perfectly clear he didn't know he was doing it. "Too much. I'd like to salvage something before everything is lost to inexcusable bumbling."

Watson raised an eyebrow in challenge. "So would I, sir. It seems strange, then, that you would work at cross purposes to me."

Holmes seemed irreverently amused by the interference. "And why not? You unwittingly cross purposed me first. I spent ten minutes trying to puzzle out the presence of a man with a cane and a limp; I made a minor but understandable assumption that this was an unknown party, as I know the foot marks of all the usual lab rats from having to eliminate their various missteps on every scene I visit. Of course, the obvious solution was Stamford's unenviable replacement. A gross error, I admit; as much my fault as anyone's."

"My heartfelt apologies," was Watson's dry retort. The man's arrogance was overwhelming but strangely inoffensive, as it was completely undirected. It was clearly the man's standard operating procedure with everyone he dealt with and therefore inspired no rankling in the stoic ex-army surgeon, who had been on the end of too many malicious and personal superior officers mannerisms. "Allow me to settle my debt; tell me what you are looking for, and I will help you find it; you need not sully your hands." He gave the man a wide, sharp grin which advertised he knew damn well that man _liked_ hands-on work.

Holmes was genuinely taken aback for a moment. He passed another penetrating look across Watson, and then let out a startled bark of laughter, a quicksilver smile briefly flashing past his face. "Very well. How am I to refuse? I am looking for signs of the poison used to kill him."

"Poison?" Lestrade blurted from where he watched the confrontation with fascination. Gregson had returned sometime in the interim, and was watching the spectacle with an open mouth.

Holmes rolled his expressive eyes, and shot Watson a 'see-what-I-have-to-put-up-with?' look. After months of well meaning people stifling his attempts to rebuild his life by treating him like a helpless invalid, Watson found, much to his surprise, he had a spurt of fellow feeling with the eccentric Holmes.

"Yes, Lestrade, poison. Do engage your brain, there's a chap," Holmes replied caustically.

"With all this blood?" Stamford spoke incredulously.

Holmes rounded on him, but Watson quickly spoke up before the verbal flaying could start. "No blood pool, though; there's blood all around, but if it came from him he'd had to have been moved from somewhere else."

Holmes sent him another one of those inscrutable looks. "Very good Watson."

Alright, maybe that did rankle a little. The man did carry the kind of tone used when a pet did a clever trick. Watson glared at Holmes, but the man wasn't paying him any mind.

"The blood is, in fact, the killer's," Holmes continued airily. "A tall American man with small feet for his height, used to being outdoors, mid thirties, fit and very strong, smokes Five Star cigars and keeps frugal habits. He probably dresses down market, and has a florid complexion, and badly trimmed nails."

"_What_?" Watson was shocked. The man had barely gotten here. The man in question simply shot him a smug smile. Lestrade merely wrote it all down. "How could you possibly...?"

"Ah!" Holmes held up a hand for silence as his eyes fixed on something. His long, thin hands darted into Watson's field kit and withdrew a pair of long tweezers, expertly ferreting them beneath the dead man's shoulder. He pulled out a small circlet of gold.

"A wedding ring?" Watson peered at the tiny piece.

"More to the point, a _woman's_ wedding ring!" Lestrade eyes lit up. "A crime of passion, perhaps. Men fighting over a woman." He looked at the wall. "Maybe he intended to write her name; Rachel. He might have been interrupted. A constable did find the body. He could have been scared off."

"The men come here, start fighting, one loses and the other escapes only injured, perhaps too injured to do anything more physically; hence, poison." Gregson summarised, looking around.

Holmes gave a long suffering sigh. "All very engaging, gentlemen, if totally incorrect. When men fight, they exchange blows," he lifted the corpse's stiffening hand with difficulty. "This is not the hand of someone who violently defended his life."

Watson had to agree on that observation. There was no bruising or splitting of the knuckles, nor any matter under the man's ill-kept nails which might have indicated he scratched his attacker.

"Then Drebber was surprised, or blitzed," Gregson persisted.

"Lord save me from lack-logic fools!" Holmes exclaimed with fervour. "There are _no marks_ on the body, gentlemen. _No marks,_ which means _no physical violence_, I believe."

"If there was no fight and no weapons present, then why is the killer's blood everywhere?" Gregson challenged, nettled.

"The simplest explanation. Once you remove physical violence from the equation, then you are left with merely physiological condition. What's the most likely place to bleed without wounds? The nose. He had a nose bleed. I'm sure tests will confirm the presence of mucus in the blood." Holmes bagged the ring efficiently and threw it at Lestrade.

Watson was continuing the examination of the corpse, while still keeping a close ear of the back and forth going on in the room. For the first time, this job seemed genuinely fascinating. And that was a positive.

"There may not be violence," Watson spoke, not realizing at first he had spoken aloud. "But there is..." he prised the dead man's jaw open. Rigor was definitely setting in. "Hand me a swab, will you?"

He meant Stamford, but it was Holmes who handed him the long swab from the kit. Watson inserted it into the darkness of the mouth, and scraped it across the back of the deceased throat. He withdrew a swab stained a reddish pink.

"There's blood in his throat?" Stamford asked, handing a vial to seal the swab in. "He swallowed something caustic?"

Holmes and Watson both exchanged a glance. "Not, I think," Holmes spoke from their wordless agreement. "From the state of his tongue. It's not irritated or blistered in any way."

"But the blood is discoloured," Watson added, turning the pinkish swab over in the vial. "The blood cells have broken down into plasma...blood into plasma..." He looked at Holmes. "If I was to take a stab - sorry, no pun intended - I'd say a hemotoxin."

"A hemotoxin?" Lestrade broke in. He had crouched on his heels near them, watching with interest. The rest of the room wasn't even pretending to work anymore. "What is a hemotoxin?"

"An agent commonly found in venom and most common in snakes of the solenoglyphous variety which is rattlesnakes and pit vipers; it breaks down the blood and blood vessel linings and causes blood to seep into the tissues of the body," Holmes reported efficiently. "Other typical effects are muscle cramps and spasms, convulsions, nervous system depression, which is of course paralysis, cardiac and respiratory arrest. Not the most powerful toxin the animal kingdom has to offer, nor the quickest death. Prey is often run to ground after being bitten, instead of dying instantly." The saturnine features of Holmes face turned a look over the contorted body. "An interesting choice of murder weapons."

"Cruel, certainly," Watson muttered. The morgue drivers were hovering outside the door, with a body bag and a stretcher.

Stamford grimaced. "I'll go with the van. Watson, can you drive back to pathology? See if you can raise Nokey; he's the poisons expert." Stamford ignored Holmes's derisive snort, stripping off a glove so he could hand Watson the car keys.

"Well, I suppose I am of no more use here," Holmes rose to his feet. "If you need my help further, and I'm certain you will, you know where to contact me. Oh, and by the way, Lestrade, you may be a dedicated flatfoot but you, sir, are certainly no student of languages. _Rache_ is German for _revenge_; I would not waste my time looking for the illusive Miss Rachel, if I were you."

He delivered the Parthian shot over his shoulder as he strode out.

Watson stared after him.

"See, I did warn you," Stamford murmured lowly. "An absolute nut."

Watson smiled ruefully. "Perhaps, but a very clever one."

"And he never lets us forget it," Lestrade growled, arms folded tensely as he glared the various people back to work. He turned dark eyes on Watson. "John Watson, was it? I shall watch your career with great interest. Any man who can match salvo's with Sherlock Holmes in a man worth knowing about." He shook the doctor's hand before marching out, his fellow detective giving them a nod before following.

Watson shook his head. It had certainly been an interesting day.

He was surprised by the pain as he rose. Not surprised that it was there. Surprised that, briefly, he had simply forgotten it was there.

That was a positive too.

...

End Chapter Two


	3. Chapter Three: The Science of Deduction

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, Light Bad Language

Authors Notes: I'm so glad I've got this all written up. I can post after editing straight away, it all good! I little more bromance in this chapter.

Please enjoy & review.

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Chapter Three: The Science of Deduction

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As Watson fumbled with his kit into the departmental car, he nearly broke his foot dropping it when Holmes voice came from a blind spot.

"Heading for the departmental labs? Capital! You can drive me to the station."

"Holmes!" Watson hastily shoved the case into the boot. "Do you mind?"

The man just looked pleased. "My apologies, Doctor. I didn't mean to startle you."

Watson had his doubts about that. Holmes had a strange sense of humour; that was clear. Nothing would be gained by pursuing it, though. "Which station?"

"The closest one. It's only a few minutes away."

Watson sighed. "Hop in." He invited.

Watson took a moment to affix the spinner knob to the steering wheel; he didn't like the thing, but it let him drive one handed until his shoulder was stronger.

They were silent until Watson steered the car onto the road proper.

"You want to know how I knew all those details about the killer," Holmes sardonic and deeply amused observation nearly made Watson swerve.

"Good grief," Watson swore. "Keep plucking the thoughts out of my head and I am going to have to give credence to the wild theory that you are some sort of psychic."

Holmes laughed out loud. "It's lucky you say such a thing so innocently, my good doctor, otherwise I would take mortal offense."

Watson flushed. It hadn't been what he had meant to say; simply what had been surprised out of him. It was strange have his thoughts pop out of someone else's mouth. "So, if there is nothing supernatural at work here, where did all those details come from? How could you know it was an American, in a city full of British people, tall, small feet, florid face and fit? All those things. I can't see how you could possibly know all those details, unless you witnessed the big event yourself."

Holmes shook his head in mock-despair. "Ah, Doctor, you were doing so well up to now. All those things are simplicity itself, once the proper logic has been applied." He spoke with a lofty air.

Watson was more amused with the insult than annoyed. He had a distinct feeling that this was an act; a well cultivated act, but still an act. The man was highly intelligent; and highly intelligent people, Watson knew, loved to explain themselves.

"I admit to my limits," Watson replied cheerfully. "As long as you don't keep me in suspense. Do that, and you walk!"

Holmes lit up a cigarette with the same lack of courtesy as he did everything else. "Who can argue with such terms?" he implored the air dramatically. "Very well. Height is childishly simple; you can measure it by a man's stride, and I had several distinct footprints to work from. Foot size was clearly disproportional to the stride. The boots the man wore were hiking boots of the hard core variety, well worn; quite different from the victim's shoes, might I add. He lived more outdoors than in. The killer was brought here in a taxi with his victim, whom by the look of his stride was falling down drunk..."

"Bloodshot eyes..." Watson murmured.

Holmes shot him a disgruntled look, indicating he did not like interruptions in his soliloquy. "Yes, I did notice. The killer was taller than his victim and was forced to support the drunken man part of the walk; Drebber is no lightweight, but there are no indications that the killer faltered or even was slowed by Drebber's not inconsiderable weight; so, fit, healthy, and not yet past middle age. The cigar ash was barely worth a look; I have written many a thesis on the varieties of cigar and cigarette ash. Five Star, and a patriotic American's brand, there is no question."

"Just because he smokes American cigars doesn't mean he's from across the Pond," Watson pointed out, deliberately oblivious to his companions annoyed glare. "US culture is insidious. And that still doesn't explain the frugal habits, the bad nails or the florid face."

Holmes huffed out a breath. "Patience, Watson, patience. The frugal habits are quite clear from his boots; well worn, he does not replace them often, even though his lifestyle would certainly recommend it. So he most likely follows this line in his clothing as well. The nail marks are quite clear from his writing on the wall."

"You barely glanced at the wall, and you noticed that?" Watson exclaimed.

"I notice more with one glance than many would see in years of study," Holmes snapped, somehow managing not to put a trace of puffed up self-importance in the statement. "_If_ I may be allowed to finish?"

Watson suppressed a snicker. "Apologies, do go on. The florid face? I really would like an explanation for that one."

Holmes sent him another searching look, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion that he was being wound up. "Yes, well...that should be perfectly clear even to a five year old. Once we have established there was no fight and that the blood was the killers and not the victim's, we must ask ourselves, what kind of man would have a nose bleed at the moment of murder? Someone supremely unlucky? No, luck plays no role in a logical universe. Much more likely; the man has very high blood pressure, high enough to trigger bleeding with a moment of stress or adrenaline; hence, his complexion is most likely florid. And he's American. Lestrade, if only by accident, was indeed correct. This was indeed a crime of passion. The killer wanted his victim to die in incredible agony, he wanted to watch him die; that makes this deeply personal. Passionate, but planned; he lured his victim into a secluded spot, and hemotoxin is not easy to come by – perhaps a long term hatred, then. Drebber only entered the country a few weeks ago, according to his passport. This was longer than that. Passion had cooled into iron resolve. Drebber knew his killer quite well, a long time ago."

Watson was impressed. "That's amazing. I mean, you are right, it's all absurdly simple once you explain it...but you were there for twenty minutes and you practically had the man's name!"

"Spare me the saccharine flattery," Holmes snorted, though there was something preening in his body language.

"This is what you do? Tell the police their job?" Watson asked, grinning at his companion's transparent pleasure.

Holmes sighed theatrically. "We all have our crosses."

Watson snickered.

Holmes shot Watson a sideways glance. "Hollow point." He said abruptly.

"Hmmmm?"

"Your shoulder. Hollow point bullet. It's a fairly common bullet across Afghanistan at the moment," Holmes added. "It's the way you hold your shoulder and arm."

Watson felt the amusement drain out of him. "I suppose. I wasn't thinking of the calibre when it hit me. How did you..."

Holmes kept watching. "The tan. The calluses on your hands, the brace. You move like a soldier, but you weren't trained by the army to be a doctor. And you are a doctor, not a pathologist. You only have a mild interest in forensics. You referred to Drebber as a _patient_, not as a victim or a body."

Watson grimaced. He wasn't entire sure he like being dissected and read like a book.

"Is that it?" he asked, nodding towards the Underground entrance.

"Hmm? Oh yes, the station. Much obliged, doctor," Holmes made to rise from the car. He paused. "If I have...offended you in any way, I apologise. I tend to study things that interest me."

Watson supposed he could accept the awkward overture as it was meant. "No offense taken," he replied.

Holmes' raised eyebrow suggested the man did not entirely believe him. "So, when do you think you'd have a report ready on our Mr Drebber?"

Watson raised an eyebrow back at Holmes. "I suppose...sometime after transcribing my notes but before I hit print."

Holmes stared at him. Then his strange bark of laughter jumped from his chest, and he closed the door behind him.

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Watson limped to his room door; it had been a long day. Drebber's autopsy had taken time, Nokey's almost morbid interest in the horrific internal damage and his insistence on full lab workups had Watson standing on his bad leg longer than was strictly recommended. He'd worked full overtime, and had barely had time enough to say an adequate goodbye and thank you to Stamford; after all that had happened today, he'd more or less forgotten the man was leaving.

What he really wanted right now, he thought, was a shower and a good meal. He'd had a shower at the labs, but he never truly felt clean until he was out of that building and had washed in his own room.

He slipped his key card into it's slot and opened the door. Manoeuvring inside, he was forced to do an awkward pivot on his bad leg in order to get the door closed in the narrow entrance. He _really_ needed to get a place. This hotel room was a terrible place to stay for someone with his injuries. If it wasn't awkward, jutting furniture, it was the rumble of the Underground beneath that never failed to induce a nightmare containing heavy ordinance. He wondered if it was worth his while to go out for din...

Some instincts just never die.

Watson dropped his cane, reached for his back holster and spun to face his apartment. He couldn't raise the gun in a proper two handed grip without setting off the pain in his shoulder, so he compromised with one hand, using the other against the wall to steady his balance without the cane. The hairs on his neck were still prickling as he reached the sitting room and...

"Relax, my good Watson, of all the intruders that may break into your barracks, I would mean the least harm."

"_Holmes_?" Watson stared over the sights at the eccentric man, quite at home reading the paper at his, Watson's, writing table. For a moment he just stared.

"Can you possibly put the gun down?" Holmes asked plaintively. "I promise I have no designs on your body, your possessions or your unmentionables. I know you are a suave lady-charmer of the world, but I'm afraid you simply can't have it all."

Watson spluttered as he slid the safety and lowered his weapon. "Holmes, what the _hell_ are you doing in my room?"

Holmes waved the paper. "Looking for accommodations before my squalid lodging on Montague Street burns to the ground."

"I mean," Watson ground out as he limped forward to the other chair. "How did you get _in_ here?"

"Oh _that_," Holmes waved an airy hand. "I scaled the opposing building and rigged a pulley system to the air conditioning unit. It was a little hair raising for moment whilst I scaled across but quite within the realms of the possible. After that, it was a rather simple matter of scaling down to your balcony and picking the door lock; good for you, by the way, not many people remember to do that."

Watson's jaw dropped open. "You...you could have ended a red stain on the pavement! Are you mad?" He sank into the chair.

Holmes shrugged. "I was perfectly safe; most of the time, anyway. A murderer in the West End did a remarkably similar trick in order to make his victim look like a suicide; now that I can prove it's within the realms of the possible, and that the killer would have left quite distinctive scuff marks on the window sidings as he climbed down, we may just have a case. It is a most fortunate happenstance that your lodgings were comparable in scale to that sordid affair."

Watson shook his head, and tried to think of something to say. "Do you take medication for this affliction, or have they given you up as a lost cause? You could have _died, _you bloody fool! And _why_ are you breaking into _my_ room? To prove a point?"

"That was merely a convenient happenstance; and I was absolutely certain I was right. And when I am certain about something, my good doctor, there is no room for error. As to why I am here...well, I suppose in a material sense I am here for your card."

"My card?" Watson repeated flatly.

"Yes. You would have been issued with an identification card as a part of the forensics department of the police. Since we are going to talk to a witness, it might be advisable to at least have a veneer of authority about us." Holmes nodded.

"Oh _we_ are, are we?" Watson replied, suddenly feeling annoyed. The arrogant assertion that he was an asset to be moved around like furniture grated against him.

"Yes. I believe I just said that."

"Holmes," Watson tone was a warning. "It has been a long day. I'm tired, I'm hungry, I need a shower and I am not in the mood to play a valet to a madman. Please let yourself out – _through the door, mind_ – and find someone with the energy to deal with your particular brand of insanity, if you would be so kind."

"Watson, Watson, Watson, you misunderstand me," Holmes held up his lanky hands.

"You need me to play a copper for some deluded crime fighting strategy; it seems perfectly clear to me!"

"Materially I need you for your card; but _need_ is the wrong word, it's just that it would be more efficient if you came," Holmes explained, to Watson rising ire. "It would save me a good ten minutes of wasted explanations."

"That's just...!" Watson would have leapt to his feet if he wasn't sure he'd fall over.

"But!" Holmes cut through the angry tirade before it could build. "I am not stimulated by material matters, only intellectual. I need to find a suitable roommate to split the costs of lodgings with. Stamford mentioned you were in the market, so to speak. I am quite certain you would be a suitable roommate for me; wouldn't you prefer the chance to find out if I would be a suitable one for you?"

That was sufficiently unexpected to jolt Watson out of his temper. "You want to go and...what? Question a witness to find out whether we could live together for any length of time? Hunting down a murderer as a sort of timeshare social mixer?"

Holmes looked deeply amused. "Simplistic but essentially correct."

Watson huffed out a disbelieving breath and propped his feet up on a sideboard near his chair. "Has anyone ever told you your method of living is subject to a gross amount of surprisingly casual nonsense?"

Holmes eyebrows rose. "People usually just come straight out and tell me I'm mentally ill. You have a way with words, Doctor."

Watson merely looked back at the taller man. "And how, exactly, do you know that I would be a suitable roommate for you? You barely know me."

To this, Holmes snorted. "Watson, do pay attention. I did state quite clearly to you before that I notice more in a single glance that most others would see in a lifetime."

Watson knew he was going to regret this, but nevertheless was compelled to ask. "And what have you noticed about me, then?"

Holmes face lit up. He obviously lived for attention like this. He made a show of steepling his fingers and gazing at the bemused doctor over the top of them. "A trifling set of observations," he said in a dismissive tone that Watson refused to believe for a second. "You were born into poor circumstances. You had at least one elder sibling, male, from whom you inherited that watch. You once played sports semi-professionally, probably rugby; you joined the army shortly after getting your medical degree, where you completed your graduate work. You had a distinguished career in the infantry, before being moved into covert operations where you were wounded badly enough to be medically discharged. You're honest to a fault, loyal, unfailingly polite even to those whom you don't respect, you have a temper, you connect very easily to people at all levels of society, you have an eidetic memory, are highly intelligent, your professional ethic is meticulous; you gamble, not compulsively but usually unsuccessfully, you enjoy adventure more that security, you believe in self-therapy, you would much, much rather be working in a hospital or in practice than where you are, you are generally pragmatic, you have studied fencing but your main fighting style in something close to Eskrima, and you, without a doubt, excel at marksmanship with a variety of guns."

Watson's mouth was open. "What did you do, pull my files?"

Holmes gave a derisive laugh. "Why waste my time on tedious bits of paper records when mere observation will tell me all I need to know?"

"_How_?"

"Very simply," Holmes leaned back with a smug, self satisfied air. "Poor circumstances are clear from your method of dress; neat, respectable but practical. You usually chose economy over style, though you carry the cheaper looks well. You also tend to use more blankets rather than use the heating system more, which is most likely a habit ingrained from childhood, as is the general neatness and the almost reflexive use of the littlest amount of space, from living in close quarters; reinforced by infantry barracks, no doubt. Your watch itself is quite old, so it's probably originally your father's; the band however is more modern. The watch originally had a leather band - you can tell by the style of fastening - and it was switched with a titanium one of a style about ten years old; probably the choice of a much younger man that your father. The past sport is evident by the muscular development and set of the shoulders and neck; even though the tone has been ravaged, the muscles were quite clearly once very developed. Not soccer, for that would only encompass the legs, nor anything holding a bat or stick, because the wrists don't match. Rugby then. Joining the army is merely logistical; you are too young to have joined anytime but immediately after gaining your MD. The sheer amount of journals you subscribe to," here, Holmes waved a long fingered hand around the room. "Indicate you did some fairly in depth post-graduate study on multiple disciplines – mostly surgical. A distinguished career is evident in the large amount of souvenirs of different provinces of Afghanistan, plus the fact that you discharged with the rank of Major after skipping up the ranks rapidly, indicating you were in high demand, and also in your work ethic – meticulous, efficient, and thorough, which the armed forces tend to like."

Watson listened with fascination. "And covert operations?"

Holmes leaned forward. "You're boots say 'infantry', but your shoelaces say covert ops."

"My....what?"

"Shoelaces. You tie them distinctly in a civilian manner. The army trains it's men to conform to it's methods right down to manner of dress, but covert operations is all about sending soldiers where no soldiers are supposed to be. They train you, among other things, how to not look like a soldier; at least, not at first glance. Little things, like personal jewellery, piercings, and yes, civilian shoes. Admittedly the shoe tying could have been result of the occupational therapy you attend, but the conclusion was helped along by two things. One, the self therapy; I see lots of empty pill bottles but no pills. Some were filled quite recently, so either you take them like other people suck on mints – impossible, given your clear headed demeanour – or you never take them at all. Covert operation training would include managing injuries without painkillers. Two, you were able, even in your physical condition, to fend off an attack by two street fighters of no little experience, to point where they were both unconscious. The army may teach many men to fight that way, my good Doctor, but there is but one branch of the military that teaches it's men to switch themselves off from pain and fear so completely. Also, you are the first medical examiner I've yet met that carries a weapon with the intent to use it – a P226 SIG Pistol L105A1 – a Combat, if I'm not mistaken."

Watson sat back, astonished at the sheer amount of insight this man he barely knew seemed to be able to pull out of the air around him.

"As for the rest of it; mostly my deductions come from a deep understanding of human nature. Honesty is quite clear from the fact that you fail at gambling – not a world where honesty is valued, I should think. Gambling is also the hallmark of a risk taker, an adventurer, and your lack of skill is quite evident by the fact that you don't spend large amounts of cash in everyday life. Your all encompassing likability endears you to Stamford, Lestrade and Nokey and gets you good reviews from even the most brief of conversations, and if that's not a wide spectrum of tastes, intelligence levels and personalities, nothing is. Eidetic memory and intelligence are clear from your age; you are barely twenty four, and you have gone through medical school _before_ joining the army; you must have started university as an unusually young age. Plus you were able to recall the symptoms of an obscure poison you, in all likelihood, would not have had any experience with aside from readings in medical school." Holmes shrugged. "The Eskrima was obvious from the way you move and the way you hold your stick; also, the type of stick - a heavy blackthorn blunt instrument and not an ergonomic aluminium affair. The marksmanship is quite clear from the calluses of your hands, also from your natural inclination to take a head shot, which is a harder to hit than the torso – also, you are supremely comfortable and confident holding a gun; confident enough to walk into a closed space knowing there is an unknown person or persons in wait for you there."

Watson was impressed and not a little awed. "Do you do this kind of thing to everyone you meet?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "I don't usually waste my breath on the plebeian intellects around me, but I do pay attention. Nothing escapes me. Genius is my art, observation is my tool, logic and reasoning in the face of unsolvable quandaries are my masterpieces."

"And modesty is your virtue," Watson snorted, grinning.

"Now I am offended," Holmes looked it. "Modesty is not to be ranked among the virtues, Watson. Things either are, or they are not. Pretending otherwise, whether by underestimation or exaggeration, is a crime of the highest order."

Watson rolled his eyes. "You're right. False modesty is much worse that given a man a slow acting poison and condemning him to a tortuous death."

"No doubt there's some sordid but lamentably commonplace motive for the murder of our dear Mr Drebber," Holmes waved a flippant dismissal. "The psychological profile I've managed to work so far follows exactly with the indicators I've already revealed from the scene. An intelligent, early middle aged man, Caucasian, physically fit and has or had a high-skill outdoor labour occupation which gave him good opportunity to develop a wide range of lateral, practical tracking and problem solving abilities. Most likely he worked in a rural environment, in a position of trust and authority. He's organised, meticulous and pragmatic; but also quite able to think on his feet. Writing the message in his own blood was a spur of the moment decision that nevertheless was a well calculated strategy to throw investigators off track. Decisive then, focused and most definitely legally sane. He may not be educated in the academic sense, but he is most likely well-read and seeks to improve himself by his own methods. He probably made or refined the poison on his own, through self-taught chemistry."

Watson shook his head. "I wonder what spurred him to kill Drebber in such a way."

Holmes shrugged. "As I said, he's legally sane. I doubt very much his motives for killing the man were some sort fancy exaggerated by delusions. I have not received any word from my sources across the pond, but even without confirmation I highly doubt whether Drebber was a saint. This murderer is a revenge killer; he seeks to destroy the object which has wronged, humiliated or crippled him, in some sense."

"Do you think he's finished?"

"Possible. But it would be premature to assume that Drebber was the only person who had done him an injustice," Holmes stared at some point in the middle distance. "In fact, the planning of the crime indicates the man might be going on a spree, and going after all those he perceives as needing to be punished. Can only one man offend to such a degree that another would put a good portion of his life to the task of revenge? Possible, but not proven."

Watson frowned. "You're sure about that?"

"The injustice, whatever it was, happened long ago as I said," Holmes replied. "If he was wronged badly enough to be willing to kill in such a dramatic way, why did he wait? If it's about a woman, then it most likely happened when he was a young man. Youth is the time when one goes twittersnit over the female race hard enough to want to kill over it."

Watson snickered at the other man's tone of deep disgust.

"He waited a long time for this; but if the crime happened so many years ago, why not redress the matter while the emotions still ran hot? Could the killer have not been able to track him down? No. If he stalked his prey through an unfamiliar city with ease, then finding the man on his home turf would not have presented any difficulties. Maybe something else prevented him from doing so."

Watson waited silently while the other man completed his thought.

"Illness, perhaps; though unlikely. He was a physically fit man when he murdered Drebber. The blood pressure is a revealing factor – he may have developed a condition recently. It could certainly be the stressor which sent him here to kill Drebber. Prison? Much more likely," Holmes fanned his hands, dismissing the matter. "Bah, it is useless to speculate without facts."

He rose to his feet in one decisive movement. "Shall we?"

Watson was actually unbalanced enough, and certainly interested enough, to follow along with the eccentric specialist's intended plan. "Where exactly are we going?"

"You don't have a car, so we will have to take the Underground."

"_Holmes,_" Watson replied the man's evasiveness warningly. "Where are we going?"

He blinked back at me. "Well it's _perfectly_ clear Watson."

Watson gritted his teeth. If crippling had taught him anything, it was patience. "Not to me, you twit."

Holmes sent him a particularly petulant look of frustration, which forced some amusement back into the tired doctor. "We are going to No 4, Audley Court in Kennington Park."

Watson merely raised an eyebrow to indicate that meant exactly nothing to him.

Holmes gave a much put upon sigh. "To the home of Constable John Rance who was, in fact, the man who found the body. We need to get an exact account from him."

"See? Was that so hard?" Watson grinned in a patronizing tone that made the other man snort in disbelief. "If you're going to let your mind steam ahead of everyone else in the room, you should at least be prepared to wait for others to catch up."  
"Good grief. I'd be waiting for the next _ice age_ for everyone else to catch up, save maybe one man I know," Holmes seemed genuinely taken aback. "Do you nag everyone you meet with this much regularity?"

"Nope. Just high falutin' geniuses with absolutely deliberate blind spots and theatrical, attention seeking behaviours designed to infuriate and strike fear into the audience."

Holmes grinned. "I am impressed. Your methodology is crude and your strategy straight of the playground, but these pointed jabs to wind me up like a clockwork toy and prove your dominion in self confidence actually have some chance of working. Given much, much more sophistication and intelligence, of course."

Oh, this man was good, Watson admitted. "No dominion being proved here," he parried lightly. "Just making sure you know that while I currently have half a working body, suffer from screaming nightmares and am currently fighting off penury with a meagre wage, you are going to have to have more than just a big brain to put me on my back foot."

"I could say the same of your big gun, doctor," Holmes riposted haughtily, but his eyes gleamed alight with amusement and challenge.

"As long and we're all on the same page," Watson palmed a packet of pills off the counter top. "Shall we?"

"Oh, after you," Holmes gestured regally. "Able bodies go last."

Watson gave him a bladed grin and strode back towards the door. "Beauty before brains."

Holmes jaw dropped open, and for a flash of a second he looked affronted. Then he grinned. "Touché."

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End Chapter Three


	4. Chapter Four:What John Rance Had To Tell

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult themes, light bad language

Authors Notes: This one is a little short, but the next chapter will be a better length, I promise.

Please Enjoy, and let me know what you think.

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Chapter Four: What John Rance Had to Tell

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Watson sat across from the eccentric man on the train while the other man's eyes darted this way and that across the other passengers. "So why do we need to speak to this constable, anyway? Can't you get access to the written report?"

"Hmm?" Holmes re-focused on him. Then he waved a dismissive hand. "Ah, the written police report. No finer work of absolute, dull fiction exists in the world. If policemen actually wrote accurate reports, I would scarcely have to move from my armchair to do my work."

Watson was tempted to ask just what that work was, because he hadn't quite figured that out yet. There was too much forensic flavour in his analyses for him to be just a profiler, and judging by the reactions of the people at the crime scene he wasn't actually on the police payroll. So what was it he specialized in, exactly? Watson suspected Holmes was trying to pique him into asking, and perversely decided not to give in.

"You're saying they lie?"

Holmes clicked his teeth. "Nothing nearly so intelligent," was the contemptuous response. "No, they just put in exactly what the dregs of intellectual purgatory that is the British court demand they put in – date, time, and number. Nothing else, no facts, no data, no details; they're so _conventional_ it would be laughable if so many killers didn't keep getting away with it." Holmes's tone was bitterly frustrated. "All the details, all the answers, all laid out before them and they are interested in only the things that have no bearing on the solution."

A dark cloud seemed to settle over the man. Watson realized that he must lead a particularly irritating existence, having to point out things that to him seemed as clear as day to people's whose minds did not spark and seethe a fraction as vividly as the genius's mind must surely do. It must be, thought Watson, like watching able bodied men sometimes twice your age, outstrip you walking down the street, while you limped along with a cane.

"Yes, true. But then they have you," Watson offered softly, somewhat surprised by his sudden impulse to soothe. "You, who have turned problem solving and deduction into the finest art."

Holmes actually blinked. He seemed wrong sided by the praise. Then he snorted, his usual arrogance reinflating. "This is true. But I am but one man. I can only clean up after so much stupidity. Honestly, the police are fortunate indeed I've taken on their burdens. If I chose to turn to a life of crime, I would run the world within a week."

Watson laughed.

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Audley Court was a low income area; not quite a crime hot spot, but certainly not a five-star hotel area either. Neat but dull apartment buildings lined the streets, packed to capacity with families who counted every penny.

The pair walked up to one of the indistinguishable building blocks and risked a shaky elevator ride to of mid-level story. Doors of exactly the same colour stretched out with no discernable difference in character. Watson viewed the dull scenery gloomily. He suspected he was going to have to get used to a view like this, because this, most likely, was the only thing within his price range.

Holmes hammered imperiously on one door. From within came the sound of children running and playing, speaking of a large family in the small apartment.

The door opened a crack; a tall, rough stubbled man peered out, darting from Holmes to Watson with a police's automatic suspicion. "Can I 'elp you?"

Holmes raised an eyebrow at Watson, who dug for his ID.

"Constable John Rance?" Watson asked politely, flashing his card. "I am Dr John Watson, with the Medical Examiners office. This is Mr Sherlock Holmes," he indicated the other man. "We have a few questions regarding the body you found this morning."

Rance's brow cleared. "Lauriston Gardens?" There was a feminine voice calling behind him within the apartment, to which he turned. "It's something about me patrols this mornin', luv. I'll be back in a mo'."

He slipped out of the door. "Can we talk our 'ere? Me kids are pretty young for all the police stuff."  
He lead the pair down to the end of the hall, where a grated spiral staircase butted up against a wide window with was jammed half open. The swarthy man took a seat on the stair and reached for a pack of cigarettes. "Mind if I smoke? My girl don't like me smoking in the house, drives her batty. What do you gents wanna know? It's all in my report."

Holmes sighed. "May I have a cigarette?" He held out a hand, a folded bank note resting in the palm. Rance extended the box, and the note was slid underneath it smoothly as Holmes extracted the cigarette. "For your trouble," was the man's sardonic comment. He accepted the offered lighter and took a drag while Watson politely declined the offer of one. "Can you describe the events exactly leading up to and just after the discovery of the body?"

Rance blew out a breath of smoke. "Not much t'tell really. I walk the beat early up through the area, and take a walk up and down the Garden a couple o' times. On me second round I saw a light in one o' the windows o' number three. I thought that a mite strange, seein' as how nobody lives there. I went up to investigate."

"You stopped at the front step and headed back to the gate. Why?" Holmes asked sharply.

Both Rance and Watson's eyebrows rose. Rance replied. "I got a bad feelin'. Thought maybe there might be a pack o' junkies or squatters in there, so it might be better if I 'ad a second man there. I went back t'see if Murcher – my partner – was nearby. He an' I have to work a ways apart in some of the beats we walk. We were due to meet up again nearby, so I went up to the fence t'see if he was nearby. He wasn't, but I thought since he was probably on his way I could safely do a check. I found the door was open, so I went up to the room where the light was on..."

"Where you walked several times around the room, knelt beside the body to take a pulse, went downstairs and tried the kitchen door and the side door before heading out of the house again," Holmes made an impatient rotation of his hand. "Then?"

Rance scowled. "How is it you know so much, sir? Seems to me you 'ad to have been there to know that – an' if you were, well then, you'd need to come with me to the station!"

Holmes handed the man a business card. "Don't go around arresting me for the murder," he bridled impatiently. "Speak to Inspector Gregson or Lestrade if you are determined to have me vouched for. What happened next?"

Rance settled back. "No' much else. I radioed Murcher and requested back up an' the detectives from Homicide." He took another drag and knocked ash on the window sill.

Holmes leaned forward. "And there was no one else on the street?" He asked intently.

"No one, until the rest arrived. 'Least, no one as could have been any help."

Holmes eyes narrowed. "There was someone else."

Rance shrugged. "Some fallin' down sot staggered up while Murcher and me were waiting for the rest. He stank o' rotgut and was beltin' out a song 'bout empty skies, crying like a little kid. We 'ad enough to deal what with the dead man, so we didn't bother takin' him in. We escorted him down the lane, stuck 'im in a taxi parked down that way."

Holmes made a sound in the back of his throat. "You didn't think to keep him for questioning?"

"An' ask what? He appeared afterwards, and he was drunk as a poet. His hands weren't beat up, his clothes and boots were all clean enough. No blood," Rance retorted defensively.

"His appearance?" Holmes demanded.

"Tall, thirty five or forty, red face, long leather jacket an' jeans, hiking boots, and a scarf wrapped around 'is mouth and neck..." Rance rattled off waspishly.

"Yes, yes, thank you," Holmes butted out the last of his smoke. "I have to say, Constable, I don't have high hopes for your career, considering the fact you're carrying a ten pound ornament on your neck. If you had actually thought to hang on to the viable suspect that dropped neatly into your hands, you might have earned your Sergeants stripes. Instead, you let him go. An independent company taxi using an older model car than the standard was most likely the taxi you stuffed him into. It was? I thought so. Good evening!"

Holmes stalked off towards the elevator, and Watson followed silently, feeling Rance's angry eyes on his back.

Holmes muttered to himself in cursing tones under his breath. Watson recognized the elegant accents of French somewhere in the black monologue. He instinctively didn't break in to his companion's mutterings however. He felt that Holmes dealt with his disappointments in a solitary way.

He said not a word as they made their way back to station, loftily ignoring the dramatic, frustrated occasional flailing of an arm as Holmes language continued through Italian, German, Russian and Watson thought there was some Chinese in there somewhere. They made it through the turnstiles on Greek and went back to French as the train departed the station. Watson certainly wasn't the least bit surprised the man had an affinity for languages. Holmes, he had realised quite quickly, was a man with few limits.

Eventually the muttered tirade petered and Holmes stared gloomily out into the dark tunnels instead, one hand propping his chin in a disaffected manner. Watson watched him with interest as the other man's eyes and mind travelled back to the here and now.

Watson sensed it was now safe to talk. "_Vous étiez extrêmement durs avec l'Agent Rance,_" he murmured.

Holmes raised an engaged eyebrow. "_Il a mérité l'insulte_," he retorted. "The man had the key to this whole problem in the palm of his hand, Watson. He not only didn't think to question the man, but he assisted his escape. Asinine! He probably didn't even mention the incident in the situation report. No one would have even _asked_ him about it. I shudder to think how many criminals have evaded the law in this great cesspool because of police like Rance."

Watson conceded to this rather cynical assessment. "I wonder why the man came back."

Holmes threw up his hands. "The ring, man, the ring! When he was in that room with Drebber – before the poison was administered – the murderer walked up and down those dusty floorboards. His stride got longer the more excited he became, culminating in the nose bleed and the poisoning. He had the ring, he dropped it during the course of events and did not realise it in his frenzy. Drebber convulsed his way on top of it. The murderer didn't even know until after he'd fled, and came back. In the same taxi, which is odd. It suggests an accomplice, which is unlikely as the motive is clearly personal." The gloom streamed off Holmes like water, leaving only vivid energy. Watson watched the change with fascination. "Still, that the man felt compelled to come back for the ring is intriguing. It may make an excellent bait to hook this particular catch."

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End Chapter Four


	5. Chapter Five: Baker Street

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, light bad language, some mention of Adult Lifestyles

Authors Notes: See? Told you the next chapter would be longer!

Please read & review.

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Chapter Five: Baker Street

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Suddenly Holmes perked up like a startled deer. "What station are we at? Baker Street? Come on, this is our stop!" He was up and out of the seat in one blur of motion, snagging one of Watson's arms and hauling him along with a strength that was surprising for his lean body.

"Holmes," Watson protested as he was unceremoniously hauled from the train. "This _isn't_ our stop!"

"It is, man, come on," Holmes was not fazed by Watson's annoyed tone. "Not for our case, no. Something a little more in the nature of our lifestyle at present," he led the way up into the street and down and around the thoroughfares briskly and looked around. "221B – presumably near 221A, but you never can tell in London..."

Watson recalled that number. "You mean the flat in the paper? 221B Baker Street? I checked, it's way too expensive."

"For one, yes, it breaks the bank. But for two, it may yet be borne. Ah, here we go," Holmes spotted number 221B, right next to the chemist. The front looked charming and well maintained, set straight onto the street past a simple wrought iron fence. "Though the gardens look a little shabby," was the taller man's only comment on the thin border of dormant iris bulbs marching either side of the door. Holmes wasted no time giving to door a firm rap.

An older lady answered the summons. Her blonde hair was fading gracefully into grey, and she dressed comfortably and neatly in a flattering but practical dress, her hair tied back in a neat bun that was neither too loose nor too severe. The current expression her face was of bland politeness tinted with a hint of wariness, but the lines of the crows feet at her eyes and along the dimples of her mouth suggested she had and used a smile on occasion.  
"Mrs Hudson, I presume," Holmes began with a smile of his own and a deferent tilt of the head. "Mr Sherlock Holmes and my colleague, Dr Watson. We are making enquiries about the room you have for let in the _Times_. Your advertisement advised making an introduction in person and as today is the last day you're giving interviews, we thought it best to try our luck."

"Oh yes, I see," she gave them both a searching look. "It's a little late in the evening, but I suppose you can come up and take a look at the rooms. Were you looking to share?"

"Yes ma'am," Watson raised a hand for her to shake, and grasped firmly. "Apologies for the late hour, my work ran over a little late," he shot a sideways look at his amused companion.

Mrs Hudson measured him steadily, and gave an understanding nod. "A doctor, you said?"

"Yes ma'am. Medical," Watson clarified. "I currently work for the police department, though, not in private practice."

She nodded. "Follow me gentlemen," she opened the door wide enough to admit them, and began describing the circumstances of the living space while she lead them through the lobby toward a flight of stairs. "The rooms for let are above my own, as you've no doubt realized. They were my husband's pet project while he was alive. I live in the apartment downstairs, quite separate from above. There are actually three levels to the house; the ground floor and courtyard at the back, which are my domain. The first floor, which has a main living space, a small dining area, a bathroom with a lavatory, and a bedroom. No balcony, I'm afraid. There is a third bedroom in the loft, which is above the first floor. The rent is a monthly payment, which will include amenities like water, gas and power. There is a second phone line connection on the upper level; if you require a landline, you may organise an account under your own names. There isn't a kitchen up there, so the rent has been tallied to include groceries and food; I am currently involved in a charitable organisation which requires me to cook and deliver several dozen daily meals to the local church, so it will be no extra work to include meals for my tenants. These will be served between certain hours of the day only, you understand, as I will not be in the house the whole day. There won't be a menu, but I can assure you my recipes are numerous and change daily. You will have to let me know if you have any particular allergies or severe dislikes. Your rent also includes a cleaning once a week, either by myself or a hired cleaner for the sitting rooms and bathrooms. Your bedrooms as well, if you have no objections, but you must warn me in advance. Laundry service is also included in the rent, as the washer and dryer are on my level. Any extra maintenance – electrical or plumbing problems, broken furniture, stains, broken windows, infestations etcetera will be extra on the rent, but as long as the breakage is accidental or not the result of fecklessness, you will only pay half the cost at most."

Mrs Hudson paused on the landing in from of the entry door to the flat, and gave them a hard look. "I have a few iron clad rules, gentlemen, and if you do eventually come to live here and any are disobeyed I reserve the right to evict you from the premises; you'd best know them now. One, the rent _must _be paid in full and on time every month. A day late, and you are out. Two, you will have a key to the front door, as well as the flat. You will not have copies made without my knowledge, and you will not give the keys to anyone else that I do not know about; you will also ensure that the doors are locked when you enter and when you leave. Three, any damage from done through your own choices or committed by any guest will be on your account and will be an eviction offence. Four, if any of my neighbours has a complaint about your habits, loud music, arguments, that sort of thing, I will expect a good explanation; if I am not satisfied, I may ask you to leave," a faint curl twitched at the corner of her mouth. "To be fair, it will depend on which neighbour does the complaining."

"The sounds reasonable, Mrs Hudson," Watson nodded when it became clear Holmes was just going to stand there looking impatient.

"Very well," Mrs Hudson unlocked the door.

For one brief moment, Watson felt like he'd stepped into a museum. Or through a time machine.

Elegant carved curves and printed fabrics straight out of the Victorian era greeted him; the surprisingly expansive sitting room divided by clusters of old world furniture. The dining cluster over by the wide window that looked onto the courtyard and was lined on one side by the outer wall of the flat, and the other by a semi jut of wall, which lead on to a small alcove type space framed by painted lintels was tucked further back which had it's own window at the back, and where you could just see a door on either side walls leading to the baack, presumably to the first bedroom and the bathroom. There were shelves and low cupboards lining the walls either side of the opposing doors, currently empty. Relaxation furniture, armchairs and settees, and a sofa marched back towards the big, old fashioned working fireplace. One long table took up a wall on one side, immediately after the small hallway from the entry door opened out to the main room, on one side on the fireplace. One the other side, at the far wall, there was an old fashioned writing desk and another line of shelves. The rest of the wall, before the room sunk deeper into the alcove, was an open door through which a second set of stairs could be just seen, which marched upwards, parallel to the wall.

The space has a lot of furniture, but was surprisingly uncluttered for all that. A few oddities of decoration hung about the room; the old fashion pitcher and basin placed on the low top of the cupboard in the alcove, a coloured glass paraffin lantern hung on one wall by a hook. An old fashioned tobacco pipe rack, complete with pipes, was on one wall where a key hook might go. The room was lit with mostly old fashioned shaped lamps on the walls with electrical fittings, but one antique chandelier hung unobtrusively from the ceiling between the dining and living room clusters.

It would be, Watson thought, a hassle to keep clean but well worth the effort. There were modern accoutrements, but whoever had designed the place had taken great pains to tuck them as unobtrusively away as possible. Air conditioning vents hid genteelly behind plaster mouldings in the ceiling, electric sockets were done in brass and under discreet flaps, as was the air conditioning controls. Mrs Hudson went across the room and slid the painting over the fireplace across rails cleverly hidden in the line of the wall paper, revealing a flat television screen.

Holmes looked around in what could almost be termed glee, and paced the rooms eagerly, poking his nose into the rooms and exploring all the nooks and corners.

"You have a slight tone of Edinburgh about you, Doctor," Mrs Hudson chatted politely while she watched Holmes like a hawk.

"Oh yes. My family moved between there and London several times when I was young," Watson replied, looking at the furniture keenly. "These look handmade."

"My husband. Put a lathe and saw in his hand, and he just couldn't stop himself," Mrs Hudson seemed gratified by his interest, so Watson resolved to keep it up. A little harmless charm couldn't hurt, because this place was fantastic. He was already a little in love with that desk. Mrs Hudson continued politely. "May I ask why you came to live in London rather than back up to Edinburgh? It must be hard to be apart from your family."

Thankfully Holmes chose that moment to drop to the carpet like a dog on the scent, and scuttle along to the alcove where the lower bedroom and bathroom faced each other. Mrs Hudson fastened her suspicious attention on this, so she didn't see Watson's expression.

"My family was not very large, and we drifted apart somewhat over my choices and my career. Locations and so forth, you know." Watson hastily turned the attention to Holmes, who was ferreting his way into the bedroom. The man had absolutely no clue how to behave in front of a possible future landlady, that was certain. "Don't worry about him, Mrs Hudson. He just very uh...thorough," was the best explanation he could make. "He hasn't acted normal from the first moment I met him, but he's harmless."

The lady accepted his assessment with a hint of shrewd scepticism. Watson tried desperately to look like there was nothing strange going on here, even with Holmes snuffling the carpet. Thankfully the man vanished into the bedroom.

"I assume you'll want to see references?" Watson diverted the woman's stare.

"Oh yes," Mrs Hudson, thankfully, turned her attention back to him. "And a pay slip, if you have one available."

"I could arrange that. Are there any secondary interviews you would like us to do?"

The woman shook her head. "You've been here, seen the apartments and heard the prerequisites for living here; I count myself a good judge of character, so no, I will not require a further interrogation. Most of my prospective tenants find this place a little too feminine, or too old fashioned; but I refuse to have it changed. Others, women especially, don't like not having a kitchen. I have a few interested parties, but if I find you and your...friend satisfactory, I will call you. The good news is you will be able to move in straight away."

"Watson, the bed down here is huge," his prospective roommate called from the bedroom.

"That's nice Holmes," Watson replied absently. "This is such a wonderful apartment, Mrs Hudson."

"Oh yes," Mrs Hudson looked around the place with a certain softness. "My husband certainly loved his projects. He spent months on it; I could never sell this place, but it costs quite a lot to maintain."

Watson had no doubts.

"Watson! The bath is big enough for two! In brass!"

"I can't imagine why that's important to you, Holmes, but very good," Watson muttered before he turned his eyes back to Mrs Hudson whom he faintly embarrassed to see was blushing. "Well, uh, anyway," he continued, slightly flustered. "Is this apartment sound proofed?"

That seemed to embarrass Mrs Hudson even further. "Not in an intended sense," she replied carefully. "But the walls are good and thick, so sound won't carry much."

"You should know, Mrs Hudson, that if I come to live here, you might hear screaming at night," he scrubbed his forward, feeling awkward about having to explain, and perhaps fortunately not seeing Mrs Hudson's expression. "I have recently been on a tour in Afghanistan. I'm not on any kind of psychiatric leave, or medicated in that sense; but, I do have nightmares."

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson's embarrassment seemed to have fled with that news. A look of gentle compassion had replaced it. "Oh, I see. Well, I have no issues with you or your nightmares, young man. My husband's brother served in Vietnam, and he used to jump at the shadows sometimes too. I didn't blame him for that, I certainly wouldn't blame you for it either."

Watson was glad of the complete lack of pity in her tone. "Also, I do carry a gun. Would you have any objections to me having it here?"

Mrs Hudson gave that some thought, and slowly shook her head. "I have no objections, as long as you observe all the proper safety precautions. Children don't come in here; still, I wouldn't be entirely happy if it was left alone and loaded somewhere out in the open regularly."

"I have a gun safe," Watson hastened to reassure. "It stays in there, unloaded, if I'm not actually carrying it. The bullets I keep in my foot locker."

"As per procedures. And you do have a permit?"

"Oh yes. Via the police department," Watson confirmed.

"Mrs Hudson," Holmes popped up, startling them both. "The long table on that wall..."

"I can have that moved out if you prefer," she responded. "My late husband used it has a workbench when he built up here."

"A carpenter specialising in restoration and prop design of antique furniture no doubt appreciated the quiet space to work. And of course, he could not work downstairs because when you bought dresses home to be cut of fitted, having them in the same room as wood shavings, drying varnish, stains, oils and waxes was a disaster waiting to happen. You were, of course, a professional seamstress with a fairly successful business," Holmes observed almost absentmindedly as he surveyed the table with speculative eyes.

Mrs Hudson's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Why yes I was, how did you..."

Watson rolled his eyes. "Just ignore him, Mrs Hudson, he's just showing off," he advised the shocked woman.

"Showing off?" Holmes gave Watson an annoyed glare. "It's all perfectly clear to the skilled observer. If that is showing off then saying the sky is blue is showing off."

"Except the sky isn't blue. It's not any colour at all," Watson pointed out in a reasonably nitpicking tone guaranteed to set Holmes off.

"Yes _thank you_ Watson for finally showing skills at proper observation, though it is typical of your particular mindset that the observation is of _no use whatsoever_," Holmes riposte was appropriately cutting.

Watson just grinned. At some point Holmes would most likely get his dander up good and proper, but for now this was just too much fun.

"I was going to ask, actually, if we could keep that in here if we should move in," Holmes continued to their bemused hostess. "It will be a good place for experimenting."

Mrs Hudson gave Holmes a long stare and she spoke next with the air of words picked extremely carefully. "Experimenting with what?"

"I will sometimes need to do some chemistry work for my clients – and I'll also need to know if they can meet me here, also. Will that be any kind of problem?"

Watson's jaw dropped open. Didn't the man have any idea what that sounded like? Judging by the gimlet light is Mrs Hudson's eyes, she certainly had formed an opinion. Watson could feel this flat and all it's charming character vanish before his eyes.

"Although usually Professor Grady allows me access to the labs at St Barts for most of the more complex tests. It cost me the patent on a new procedure for identifying traces of human haemoglobin," here Holmes sniffed disapprovingly. "But it's a sacrifice that pays off, I suppose."

Watson's eyes narrowed; a chemist then.

Mrs Hudson relaxed slightly. "You're a scientist, then?"

Holmes gave a diffident shrug. "Part of my profession, yes. My clients will need to come here to consult with me. Will that be an insurmountable difficulty?"

"As long as they don't come banging at all hours, and do not stay longer than a day, then no," Mrs Hudson replied levelly. "But it will depend on the look of them. And if anything goes missing or is broken then it will be on your account, Mr Holmes."

Holmes responded to her steel hard tone with a tight smile. "Of course. Worry not, madam, for I am a respectable man."

"Despite all evidence to the contrary," Watson murmured, and snickered at the other man's sharp look.

"My only concern is for poor Watson here," Holmes parried. "For as long as I've known you, you've had trouble with stairs. Of course we can't ask for one of those helpful stair lifts that the elderly and infirm use; it just another thing that must be borne, I suppose. War wounds and that awful PTSD; and you refusing to take your medication, too. Well, that's what they invented gun safes for. Don't you worry old chap, when the darkness nights come, I will, of course, be there to help you and make sure you get what you deserve."

For a moment Watson couldn't see for a red clouding his vision. Gritting his teeth against his temper, and mindful of the watching woman to whom they were trying to appear at least semi-respectable, he responded. "Yes, thank you Holmes. You are a true friend. But I certainly wouldn't want to rely on your good nature to help me through life." He stated with absolute certainty. _You're dead the minute we're out the door_, his glare promised.

"It's no trouble," Holmes grinned back; _And yet every word was true._ "I'm afraid this was a spur of the moment trip, Mrs Hudson. Can we send our references tomorrow?"

Mrs Hudson gave a nod. "Of course. I'll let you know my decision in a day or two." She escorted them back down the stairs.

"It was a pleasure, Mrs Hudson," Watson reached to shake her hand again.

"I hope you will offer us due consideration, madam," was Holmes' contribution as they were let out. "It's terribly hard to find an accommodating landlord even in these modern times."

Watson wondered what had spurred that remark, and was even more puzzled by the good lady's response.

"If there's anything I can't stand, it's bigotry clothing itself in decency," Mrs Hudson spoke firmly. "Whatever else happens, gentlemen, my decision will be fair, regardless of lifestyle. Good night."

Watson stared after the closed door. Lifestyle? He went over the conversation, and suddenly the penny dropped. He turned around into Holmes's laughing face. "She thinks we're..."

Holmes just snickered. "Well, you did go on about screaming in the night."

Watson frantically re-ran the entire conversation in his head and nearly groaned. Shrapnel and bullets clearly weren't good enough for the universe, oh no. He had to come home and die of embarrassment instead. No wonder Mrs Hudson had seemed so flustered. Estranged families, screaming, bedrooms and bathrooms, oh my... "I didn't mean..." Watson stammered, feeling his face heat while Holmes cackled madly like a fiend. "Well _you_ certainly didn't help, Mr Bath-for-two," he muttered.

"Honestly, you should have tried blushing at her as well, because that's charming – in a virginal choir boy sort of way," Holmes was relentless. Good grief, Watson was beginning to rethink this, and had a sinking feeling he was about two hours too late. Holmes' amusement was the honest, sincere and slightly wicked glee of a ten year old. "Besides, my good doctor, there is no way she will say no now. I thought I might have to do a little adlibbing to make up for your obvious lack of thespian skill, but you blundered in a perfectly reasonable and believable bit of obfuscation."

"What?" Watson gaped. "You did that on _purpose_?"

"Obviously," Holmes was enjoying himself immensely. "You are correct, Doctor Watson, a sufficiently massive intellect hardly intimidates you, but a little sexual misconduct and unwitting conspiracy has you all aflutter. Oh dear, how very macho and soldierly."

"What possible reason could you have to make a prospective landlady that you're..."

"Queer as a three pound note? Because the London School of Business is right down the road." Homes replied as if that explained everything.

Watson rolled his eyes. "And that has what to do with the price of feet?"

Holmes sighed. "Sometimes, I despair about the observing faculties of the human race. Three hundred million something years to get us eyes to see and still not enough time to give us a brain to match. Mrs Hudson has rented that flat out before, and the resulting disastrous results have left her twice shy about prospective tenants. You can tell from the sheer amount of scrubbing, shampooing and repainting she has had done to erase the previous occupants from the room. It still could not quite remove the traces of methamphetamine production I found of the cupboard tops near the door to the downstairs bedroom, nor in the carpeting of the bedroom itself. She probably rented to a near relation and their friends, thinking that blood was thicker than water, without realising that blood isn't nearly as thick as the call to addiction. You noticed, of course, her concerns were monetary, security, and her neighbours in that order. Not what we do, not if we work in shift work and not our references which is usually the first thing a landlord will ask. She let them stay for much longer than strictly fair without pay or eviction, judging from the amount of traces left, which tells us ties of blood were involved. I think she is more interested than having someone completely contrasting her previous feckless relatives than anything else."

Curious despite himself, Watson asked. "And the London School of Business?"

"Probably the majority of her prospective tenants, who would be either foreigners with whom she can't make herself understood, middle aged human resources managers whom probably have mistresses on the side, or future CEO's of the world; and future CEO's like to get their vices sorted out good and early. No, she is tired of mothering students, I imagine," Holmes gave a theatrical flourish. "And then there's us; employed professionals with respectable careers..."

"A big assumption when it comes to you."

"Steady incomes and a lifestyle seemingly free of unexpected interlopers of the romantic kind, of which she is probably wary of," Holmes ignored the interruption. "With good reason, I suspect. Who knows what kind of people the previous tenants brought into her life; but they probably brought a tiresome amount of drama as well."

"So you let her believe you and I, for whatever insane reason, are together to what? Trick her into taking us in?" Watson raised his eyebrow. "You really do have no shame. You do realise this, right?"

"Watson, please," Holmes sallied derisively. "She made her own assumptions, which we are not responsible for."

"But you did nothing to correct her!"

"It's not my job to dictate others thoughts and reactions." At Watson's look of incredulity Holmes continued. "Not in matters of accommodation, at any rate. Besides, whatever else we are, we are not the student body she despises, and that flat is perfect for both my purposes and yours. If a little misdirection moves the odds in our favour, I see no detriment. You, of course, are an honest man," Holmes said it like it was some sort of developmental disorder. "And are free to do as you choose. If you want to live in some cockroach infested hovel to remain true to your principles, that is entirely your affair. Or, you could just take the flat, miscommunications and all, and be comfortable. Well?"

Even Watson had to admit it was a logical argument, even if his conscience nagged at him. "I don't like being dishonest in my dealings, that's all," he conceded semi-gracefully.

"Which is, no doubt, why you rarely have any successful ones," Holmes snorted. "Not to worry, Doctor, I suspect you will be the kind of apple polishing perfect tenant she is looking for, which will mitigate any little deceptions. We may have to take a bath together once in a while to maintain the deception, but the flat is well worth it." He disappeared round the corner into Allsop Place.

Watson choked. "_What?"_

It wasn't until he heard Holmes sniggering around the corner that he realised the man was pulling his chain.

"Oh yes, touché," Watson muttered as he followed.

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End Chapter Five


	6. Chapter Six: The Nature of Battle

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Adult Themes, Violence, Light Bad Language

Author's Notes: Ooooo, Holmesian purists aren't going to like me for this one; this is the first time I've deviated significantly from the accepted Canon (aside from the fairly obvious major deviation, of course). But fear not, oh leather-backed tome wielder, it does _not_ change the overall story. I put this in because of a timeline restraint; in the books this story is set over several weeks (or years, depending on how you look at it), but this re-packaging doesn't have that kind of time plot wise. You'll see why later on. Just roll with it; if you can accept Arwen wielding a sword in Lord of the Rings, you can take this.

And just on another, more annoying, point; I never realised my scene break lines (-------) weren't appearing in my previous posts; sorry all, I truly just did not notice. I was irritated when I found out, because the whole rhythm of the story, particularly the prologue, was thrown off by that. But I went back and fixed it, so it's all good now.

Please enjoy this, and feel free to drop me a review (please!).

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Chapter Six – The Nature of Battle

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The two men chatted their way back through the Underground, emerging from the station closest to Watson's hotel. Full night had settled in and the night people of London had taken to the streets, through which Holmes and Watson walked unnoticed and uncaring. They had been covering a range of topics through the stations and trains they travelled which culminated in Holmes deducting facts from their fellow passengers, and Watson trying, in vain, to refute him.

"...just saying there is no way you could possibly know for a _fact_ the man is an unsuccessful stockbroker with a drinking problem from the state of _one_ button on a coat," Watson protested, determined to go down fighting. Holmes had already revealed the stunning causal chain of logic detailing the man's profession and state of lifestyle, though Watson thought privately that it might have gone down a bit better had the man in question and the _entire carriage_ not been within earshot, as they had been for _all_ of the expert dissections of what were private matters. A trail of red faced passengers had been left in Holmes' wake. Watson didn't think he'd been imagining the looks of pure relief that had suffused the other passengers when the two had moved to leave. Clearly they didn't want to become the next object to focus the eccentric madman's attention, a state of affairs with which Watson could sympathise.

"If you want facts, just look at the gibbering look of shock and guilt on the man's face when I said so," Homes voice was an expression of perfect amusement. "Nevertheless, I didn't need his facial tell to know that I was indeed right. The truth of all of existence is in the very shape of it's nature; these shapes and the truths therein are perfectly clear. There is no hiding them. From one drop of water a person can deduce the existence of the Thames or the Niagara without even having seen or heard of either."

"Rot," Watson returned evenly. "There are too many possibilities in life to be able to see every truth there is just from what they look like. Do you know how many diseases have exactly the same symptoms? It's impossible to tell from a glance what the true sickness is."

"Ah, but there is the flaw in your logic, Doctor," Holmes held up a peremptory finger. "The symptoms are all the same, so therefore you must look deeper than just the effects; you ask the patient questions about their life, you run tests; because if the symptoms are all the same, then logic would dictate it's all the _same_ disease, which any encyclopaedia of medicine will tell you is impossible. You look to the cause as well as the effect; and to the very nature of the malady as it progresses, and eventually you find the true sickness. There are many possibilities but there is only one truth. With logic and observation you will eliminate all the possibilities and arrive at the truth. You have, in fact, given me the perfect argument while trying to argue against me. No one in medical science since the Dark Ages has ever said 'this is all we are to know'; they searched for the roots that grew the twisted vines of death that captured the patients before them, and found the true nature therein. It is the same thing as a stockbroker's button or a crime scene. There is always a truth, Watson, if logic and observation are applied fearlessly."

Watson gave up. "Truthfully? You could have kept from airing the poor man's dirty laundry to everyone else on the train, Holmes."

To this, Holmes merely chuckled. "True; but if you're going to walk around London wearing your secrets then you must be prepared to have them revealed by the keen, analytical eye."

"I doubt whether anyone could adequately prepare for you, Holmes," was Watson's half amused and half exasperated assessment.

"Also true," Holmes accepted the critique amicably. "I have not now, nor have I ever, had much use for social graces. I find the ponderous majesty of British law more than stupid enough. I see no reward whatsoever in pandering to the invisible rules and conventional expectations of the social mob. At best, society is like a privileged peer; pompous, hypocritical, dishonest and dull. Also cruel as a torturer and as attracted to glitter as a magpie. Some of the finest people I know are murderers and street emperors. They may be raw and crude and even slightly mad, but at least they aren't confined to some idiotic code of conduct spewing from the grey mediocrity of the mindless herd."

"Good to know, if I'm going to be sharing space with you," was the only thing Watson could think of to say.

Holmes blinked out of some brown study. "I'm also known to play the violin too." He gave his companion a smirk.

"You play it well, so that shouldn't be an issue." Watson shrugged.

"Ah, you almost impress me," Holmes retorted with interest. "What is your chain of logic that leads you to that conclusion?"

"What logic? I just have a gut feeling that you don't actually know how to anything badly," Watson explained sardonically. "Aside from playing by the rules, but that's more a deliberate choice than any lack of actual skill."

"Gut feeling," Holmes dismissed this irritably. "I was right not to be impressed. Gut feeling indeed."

"So I'm wrong?" Watson asked playfully.

"As it happens, you are correct," Holmes replied primly. "But you do nothing to merit praise over it."

"So what does it matter how I came to the truth, so long as I get there?" Watson demanded, but he was smiling.

Holmes clutched his head theatrically and groaned. "Spare me! A windfall is nothing to be proud of! People act like they are entitled to glory for bumbling into truth and good fortune, and then have the gall to act like it is a merited privilege instead of a gross disservice to common sense." He jabbed a finger at Watson. "Your repeated attempts to argue the merits of thoughtless guesses and coincidences are going to give me an aneurysm!"

Watson laughed from deep in his belly. "Alright, alright, forgive me. I wouldn't want that, of course. Who would I split the rent with?"

Holmes muttered deprecations under his breath as they turned another corner. "Honestly. People don't think. They never really _think_. They guess and hope and pray and then complain when things turn out differently than they expected. If they actually put their brains into it, there would be no nasty surprises around the corner. If Drebber had stopped to think where his killer was taking him, he might still be alive."

"The alcohol was probably an effective means to prevent thought from making an appearance," Watson snorted. "From the look of I had of his liver he appeared quite happy to live his life thoughtless."

Holmes went from frustrated despair to intense concentration in an instant. "Interesting. Long term effect?"

"Well on his merry way to cirrhosis," Watson confirmed. "I may never drink again."

"Hmmm. Self indulgent or guilty conscience? Or both, perhaps," Holmes mused.

"My pathology training didn't cover divination from the entrails, so I can't help you there."

"Of course not," Holmes replied abruptly, and Watson was more amused than annoyed by the snotty tone. "Other than repeatedly stating the obvious, do you have any other vices I should know about?"

"What, you mean you don't already know?" Watson replied in mock surprise, which Holmes parried with a sardonic grunt. "Gambling and nightmares, though the latter doesn't count as a vice so much as an affliction. I have a temper..."

"No, really?"

"...and I don't like fighting. It's getting harder and harder to hide the bodies."

"A worsening problem in this modern age," Holmes nodded solemnly, to which Watson grinned. "Rentable garden mulchers, where would we be without you?"

"I smoke on occasion; and I mean the strong stuff, but if that's a concern to you then you and the herd have something in common," Holmes gave a bark of laughter to this, and offered a cigarette from his case. Watson took one and continued. "Try not to startle me awake because I come up swinging and will be keeping a hunting knife within easy reach; a habit I can't seem to erase. Just stand out of reach and call me, or shake me by the foot." Watson lit up the cigarette and fixed Holmes with a stern look. "I mean that Holmes. My profession taught me to heal but the army taught me to kill, effectively and without thinking. They have gotten very good at it over the centuries." Watson thought it best to get his built-in violent reflexes out in the open as soon as possible. He wouldn't allow anyone to get within striking distance on a regular basis without knowing what they really were.

He was not surprised by Holmes complete lack of intimidation. "Anything else?" was the laconic answer to this dangerous possibility.

Watson relaxed. "Nothing as yet. Once I've healed a little more I have another set of vices which I will give full attention to." He took a drag, and blew out the smoke.

Holmes chuckled. "Fair enough."

"And what about you? Social graces and an inability to understand therein, dissection of the most private secrets by means of the smallest trifles..." Watson began, ticking off the points with the cigarette.

"You're secrets are not many, so you have not enough material for me to keep dissecting with," Holmes cut in, lighting his own cigarette. "So that won't be an issue. Smoking, but that is evidently of no concern. I will have clients coming in and out during the day, for which I might need use of the sitting room." He raised his eyebrows at the Doctor, who loftily ignored this attempt to get him to ask about his profession. "At times I fall into the moodiest black depressions imaginable. I've never endured it from the outside but I hear that they are quite impenetrable once they are going. It's best just to leave me to my devices until the storm has passed."

Watson considered this while the nicotine hit his system. "Bipolar?"

"Twenty eight of the fifty two child psychiatrists I was forced to see certainly thought so," Holmes replied cheerfully. "But really, at least four of them were sued for malpractice so I hardly think their diagnoses count."

Watson stopped walking. "_Fifty two_?"

Holmes smirked. "That was just during the developmental stage. I more than doubled that at the onset of puberty. Point at any affliction in a psychology textbook and I can almost guarantee that someone, somewhere has claimed I suffer from it."

Watson stared at the man. "And you're proud of this?"

"Not proud so much as deeply entertained," Holmes corrected, taking a drag. "I do count it a point of pride that after the age of fourteen I never had a single therapist able to survive a single session with me. I don't know if I broke a record, but I certainly sent a benchmark with my modest efforts."

Watson, torn between horror and curiosity, had a vision of a skinny teenager hammering observation after observation into a cowering therapist as they backed up against a wall. After months of getting talked down to by the mental health board, Watson laughed until he cried.

"Good grief," he managed after a few minutes of guffaws. "I don't know if I can survive with you as a roommate." He butted the cigarette and packed the butt into his pocket.

Holmes, for his part, was staring at him with an odd look on his face. "Well, that's easily ascertained. We'll take the rooms for six months; by that time it should be quite clear whether we can live together or not."

Watson was about to advise that he wasn't even sure he wanted to split rooms yet, when the space between his shoulder blades tingled. He looked around and took instant note of the following; they were in a deserted patch of street close to the main road when the hotel was, there were no streetlights and one dead end alley branching off the street, there was a suspicious amount of closed drapes and shutters in the windows stretching far above them, and there were at least seven rough looking characters moving in on them.

"Ah, you noticed then," was Holmes' contribution, still finishing his cigarette. "I was wondering when those much advertised covert operations instincts would surface." He blew an unconcerned trail of smoke.

"You didn't think to mention this?" Watson muttered irritably while the dead eyed pack spread out to surround them.

"Well I _had_ planned to reach the main street before they had any opportunity to strike," Holmes returned calmly, tossing the remainder of the cigarette. "But as I now see, this was not about opportunity. Any of them look familiar?"

Watson scrutinised the stalking group. "Oh, it's you two," he recognised the two men who had attacked him some weeks previously. "I can still see my handiwork." Watson felt a trickle of sweat down his back. Damn it, this was bad. Two men he was able to fend off, mostly due to surprise and luck; an advantage he no longer had. And now they had bought friends. And Watson's gun was sitting in his hotel room. And they were officially screwed.

"Probably didn' expect to see us agin' there, ya bastard," one sneered, enjoying the way the two men watched the gang warily. "Ain't you lucky? I wan jus' tellin' the lads about ya an' they jus' 'ad ta meet ya. See, you didn't give us the toll, see, for walkin' our streets. It's very important that we get our toll, see, 'cause it keeps the streets clean an' safe. But you didn't pay, and we reckon that was a mite impolite o'ya."

"Yeah, some folks ain't got not respect," jeered another man from behind him.

"My apologies, I never saw the booth or the signs or anything. I'm a bit new to the area," Watson kept a grip on his cane and kept the ringleader in his sights. He didn't feel fear. He wouldn't let himself feel it. If fear came, death would follow soon after. "If you let my companion go about his way, you and I can discuss it."

Holmes' snort of disbelief was echoed by the guttural chuckle of sincere amusement from the gang leader, the dark piggy eyes of his lighting up with glee. "Aw, no, we cain't do that, man. See, you didn't pay th'toll, so now you owes double, see? And there two o'ya now? That what I's call serenippy, that I do."

Holmes lips moved. "You mean serendipity, I think."

Watson risked a glance at the man. Holmes was standing completely still, almost disdainfully, for all the world looking like a man forced endure some distasteful manure as he took an evening stroll. If he felt fear he certainly was good at hiding it. Watson gritted his teeth. His leg was not in good shape after a long day, his bad arm was useless except for blocking and he was outnumbered. Even if he could give Holmes an opening to escape, there was no way he could be certain he wouldn't be chased down before he could get to the main road. Damn it!

"And you're correct, this is certainly a serendipitous event, for I have been absolutely dying to try out some more of my experiments on fighting physicality and psychological affects therein," Holmes turned to Watson and said confidentially. "It is very hard to study this without subject to test on, and it's not like there would be any volunteers."

"Holmes," Watson replied, his voice hard as bedrock. "_Run_."

"Hmmm," Oh for Christ's sake, the man actually looked affronted. "No. I'm sorry, but I don't get these opportunities very often. You there," Holmes pointed to a behemoth, easily the biggest predator there. "You look like an excellent subject. Come on then, don't just stand there. I'm sure you can at least rub two brain cells together to make a spark and get your body moving," Holmes danced from foot to foot, his hands balled into fists, looking like a fly about to fight an elephant.

Watson heard an oily chuckle. "Aw hell. Give 'im what 'e wants. This in gonna be _fun_." Cold eyes mentally tagged Watson as his own personal prey, and he looked as if he was prepared to wait patiently while the terror overtook his victim, because he was that sort.

Watson ignored this, too busy nearly falling over in disbelief from his companion's attitude in the face of near certain death. Holmes was bouncing around like a deranged bird, huffing and jabbing the air dramatically. It would have been a fantastic technique if you were trying to cure depression; it didn't measure up so well as a method of prolonging life in battle. Watson desperately hoped these weren't experienced fighters, but he knew it was a vain one just by looking at them. He shifted his stance and tried to scan and plan tactically.

The pack moved to strike.

Watson's first thought was; they are going to make this last, because they like terror and pain. His second thought was; the man off to the side is going to try to grab me, because the ringleader is the kind of brainless sadist who like to hit people when they are helpless.

His third thought came from the corner of his eye, and from deep in a dark cave of his soul where an unblinking soldier forged by the army had been chained. _Holmes' footwork is perfect_.

Watson swiped his cane in a feint at the leader which earned him a sharp pain in his bad arm, but which also brought his other arm cocked around to strike his approaching would-be restrainer hard across the jaw with his elbow. The pain went all the way to his collar bone, but the crack of splintering bone was gratifying. He followed up with a steel hard thrust of his lead-cored cane knob to the solar plexus that forced ribs inwards, and the first assailant was down for the count.

The second fell in almost the same instant as Holmes dodged a bowling ball sized punch like it was a casual wave, and followed up with a jaw snapping strike of his own which nearly swung the behemoth around like a top. Holmes spun like a dancer and slapped the man next to the staggering behemoth, three quick strikes in succession, culminating in a double blow to either ear.

Holmes didn't look focused or fierce; he had an almost dreamy expression of tranquil contemplation on his face.

Watson was forced to pivot and launch off his braced leg and tackle the man coming in from behind him, accepting a punch in the process, but managing to bring a knee up into a tear-inducing area hard and crunch down onto his assailant as they both toppled. The man howled in agony, and Watson rammed his cane into the man's temple to silence him.

He was then yanked off the unconscious attacker from behind by his bad shoulder, his arm twisted viciously in the process and wrenching an unexpected yell from him. The ringleader just smirked and struck the affected joint repeatedly until Watson's vision greyed out and he curled to the ground, listening to the crack of flesh hitting flesh from Holmes' side of the fight.

Holmes was dancing his way between three assailants, using the confusion to his advantage. The behemoth moved to crush his skull with a blow, but Holmes had enticed a smaller gang member to try to headlock him from behind. Holmes slipped neatly down and out of the grasp leaving the smaller attacker vulnerable to the behemoth's swinging fist, which knocked him flat. He turned to the third man who had darted in to take advantage Holmes' attempted escape and instead ran straight into a classic one-two double blow.

A metallic sound refocused Watson's attention, and just as he saw the bowie knife the ringleader had pulled out with a triumphant smile, Watsons arms were grabbed and twisted above his head by another man, creeping in from a blind spot.

"Ooooo, I'm gonna make you bleed," the ringleader crooned in delight.

Watson didn't allow himself to think. His head jerked back into the restraining man's forehead, and his braced leg swung up as the knife came down. The knife sliced his leg, but skittered across the metal and plastic of the brace, lodging under one strut.

The ringleader frowned because he had been momentarily thwarted the unexpected armour, but was at least clever enough to pull the knife back and out before it stuck irrevocably. But he wasn't quite quick enough avoid Watson's steel capped army boot on his other foot smashing into his face. He was thrown back, his nose satisfyingly flattened.

Watson felt behind with his hand and managed to grab a handful of greasy hair, which he yanked hard. The man holding him gave a yell and was forced to let go as he grappled with the Doctor's gripping hand. Watson took a blow to the head and then to the shoulder blade as the man tried to force him to loosen his grip. He received a kick to the sternum from the cursing man when he released the hank of hair. The attacker backed off a step to regain his breath.

Struggling to breathe as he lay on his back, Watson fumbled for his cane and was forced to roll and drag himself towards it to where it had fallen. The attacker after him reached him just as he reached the cane, and he was fortunate enough crack the edge of it across the man's kneecap, if only with moderate force. The man fell with a howl, and Watson used the brief respite to get his legs under him, ruthlessly ignoring and suppressing the pain by turns as they took his weight. He could barely use his braced leg, and was forced to put most of his weight on the other for fear of falling.

At the other side, Holmes was still fending off attackers. The behemoth was down, the second man was vomiting in a shivering huddle near one wall, but the third attacker had armed himself with a length of pipe ripped from one of the derelict walls, which Holmes was dodging desperately while we looked for an opening.

Watson tossed up and gripped his cane in the middle. "Holmes!" and tossed the heavy thing toward the other man.

Holmes snatched it midair and thrust like a fencer, blocking and striking with ease which spoke of practice. The sound of the two weapons clashing echoed off the walls.

The man with the pulled hair was approaching him warily, breathing hard. He wasn't a confident fighter, which suited Watson just fine. He was no longer in any condition to take on a man more able than himself. Or even less able, come to that.

Pulled Hair threw a punch, hard but without much verve. Watson let the blow throw him against the wall, because there was no way he could remain standing without support. A second blow was tried once his attacker had checked that the first one had worked. Watson dodged the hook, bringing up his bad arm after the fist whistled by and pushing the attacker's punching arm sideways, forcing the man's body to twist much further than the man intended. Watson swung his braced leg up in a half circle awkwardly but successfully knocking the back of the man's knee. His attacker now twisted and unbalanced, Watson used his good arm to curl around the man's neck and drag him around in a reverse embrace, pulling the man almost intimately against his body, feeling the man's tight shoulder blades against his chest. Bracing across the back of the man's neck with his bad arm, Watson pulled up and back, constricting the arm across the man's neck. The man struggled and strained, but Watson kept the pressure until he slumped.

Dropping the unconscious man, Watson leaned against the wall and focused on not sliding down it into a heap. His shaking legs certainly wanted to. The pain radiating from his shoulder was hideous, and one side of his face was beginning to feel tight and hot. A rush of coiled, rolling nausea welled in the bottom of his stomach and it was just as well his stomach was empty; all he did was dry heave as his body trembled and spasmed. For a long minute, all Watson could do or understand was breathe. The adrenaline which had sustained him vanished, leaving only pain, toxic sickness and a heart hammering fit to burst. Wetness radiated from the burning slice beneath his brace; itchy, sticky and uncomfortable. Sweat was trickling from every pore. He closed his eyes and tried to focus.

There was a hand gripping his ankle. Watson looked down to see Holmes down there, lightly bruised but otherwise fit as a fiddle. "Well, you did say not to wake you suddenly," was his impertinent explanation. He held out Watson's cane. "Thank you for the loan."

Watson murmured his thanks, gripping the thing and using it to take some weight but otherwise making no move.

Silence reigned, with the exception of the groans and coughs of the luckless pack of thugs strewn about the place. Watson felt Holmes rise to stand alongside him, leaning against the wall much like Watson was doing.

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Would you be so kind as to block the knife coming to stab you in the chest?"

Watson's eyes shot open and his cane shot upwards, crossing the bowie knife the ringleader had stabbed at them with malice aforethought, half his face, neck and chest crimson with rivers of blood. The knife was forced upwards and Holmes levelled a solid iron punch at the ringleader, right in his ruined nose. The man rocked on his feet, face expressionless, before slowly tipping backwards like a tree.

"Well done, Watson," Holmes massaged his hand.

"It was no trouble, Holmes." Watson closed his eyes again. Everything felt surreal, and Watson let it stay that way. The minute he started thinking, he would lose it. "Are you hurt?" he asked Holmes.

Holmes' lip curled into a sneer. "A few bruises, but they would need to be far better than they were to do any damage to me."

Watson nodded as he looked out over the tableau. "Any ideas on what to do now?"

Something rectangular and knobbly was pressed into his hand. "Call the police. Whatever deficiencies they have in terms of logic, when it comes to cuffing ruffians for a well deserved sabbatical behind high walls they have got it down to a fine art. I'll see to some restraints until they arrive."

Watson did as ordered, fumbling with his ID card to get a number off it while Holmes dug around in various pockets, coming up with a handful of plastic ties that could be used as handcuffs in a pinch.

Watson noticed he took a certain amount of scientific interest in tying the prostrate gang members up in as many different ways as possible, including tying one man's wrist to his ankle, another one upside down against a wall, and using a belt around the massive wrists of the behemoth.

When he was finished, he rejoined Watson at the wall, while Watson was wavering on his feet.

"Steady on, old man," Holmes told him cheerfully. "Not much further to go."

"Holmes, the only place I'm going to is the ground," Watson groaned in a heartfelt way. "There is no way I can make it back to my room."

"How about around the corner?" Holmes replied. "There's a little Italian place just there that runs all night and do sublime ravioli. I don't know about you but I'm starving."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "Don't you know the police want to talk to us? They were pretty definite that we answer their questions when they get here, mostly I think because they didn't believe me when I gave them the sit-rep."

"Easily accommodated," Holmes replied airily. "You there!" he jabbed a finger at one conscious gang member who was covered in blunt force contusions.

"Yes sir!" he squeaked.

"The Doctor and I will be in Marcini's at the end of the street. Be sure to tell the police that when they arrive. Understood?" Holmes face promised pain if _wasn't_ understood.

"Yes sir!" the gang member agreed hastily, no fool. "Whatever you say, sir!"

"And try not to die in the interim!" Holmes ordered, while we offered a shoulder to Watson. "I hate paperwork and testifying and all that nonsense."

"Er...yes, sir."

......................................................

End Chapter Six


	7. Chapter Seven: Fears & Limits

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, light bad language

Authors Note: I am soooo tired, but never mind that. This chapter might make the fans of the original books chuckle a bit; hopefully everyone else too. It's also the reason I had a fight in the last chapter, so there you go!

Please, read, enjoy, review, review! Thanks to all my readers so far!

...

Chapter Seven – Fears and Limits

...

Watson stifled a moan as he forced his legs to walk, and had to lean more weight than his pride liked onto Holmes' shoulder as they moved. His body was screaming so loud that it blotted out all other senses. He saw, felt and tasted nothing but pain.

"That really was an interesting experiment," Holmes chattered as they made their slow way up the alley. "Of course it never occurred to them to fight as a unit, which is no doubt a factor in our favour. And of course every single one of them had a negative IQ, because why else would they come back after a man already proven to be stronger and smarter than them. The behemoth especially will be shy about using his fists against a smaller man again, I daresay. He will certainly be on a liquid diet for the foreseeable future, unless of course the universe really does have a sense of humour and the man has dental insurance. Fighting multiple opponents is most difficult to arrange most days; the other members of my gym are quite perplexed when I suggest trying more than one man in the ring, but conventional thinkers are everywhere aren't they? Even in men who barely think at all. It reminds me of the American president...oh, I forget which one, whom sent his bodyguards to fight the aikido master during the occupation of Japan and, subsequently, said bodyguards practically had their kidneys kicked out of their ears. They never stopped to consider that if you spent your life fighting, extreme age just makes you more dangerous. I suppose that pack of brutes never stopped to consider a man with a bad leg and shoulder managing to fend off two attackers even in his state is not a poor fighter. I suppose that just reinforces my former point, that conventional thinking is far, far worse than mere criminality."

"Holmes," Watson managed to gasp. "You're babbling."

"Excuse me? I never babble," came the indignant rejoinder. "I have profoundly complex mind that continually requires expression, and language is just illogical and somewhat inefficient."

Watson felt amusement bubble unexpectedly in the swamp of pain. "I see." He deadpanned.

"Ah, you laugh at me," Holmes hauled him unceremoniously over the doorstep of the shadowy restaurant. "Fidelio, _una tabella per due, per favour_."

"_Il sig. Holmes! Che cosa è accaduto?_"

The conversation went back and forth in Italian over Watson's fuzzy head while he was steered towards a table and manipulated into a chair. At some point in the journey someone had been sent to fetch icepacks, the blessed numbness which Watson eagerly welcomed on one leg propped on an empty chair and across his shoulder. The interior of this place was shadowy – not dank exactly, or poorly lit, but the atmosphere of welcoming darkness haloed by tiny points of candle light, and someone playing the violin softly in some hidden corner. Waiters and other folk coming and going to their table vanished into the dark not two feet from them and only coloured orbs from the stained glass candle holders revealed that there were any tables aside from their own. There were some murmured conversation of other late night patrons, but otherwise it was a place of solitude and comfort and music that flowed expertly from the player's fingers. It was a human musician and not a recording, Watson was sure about that.

"They should bring the food out shortly," Holmes spoke gently into the dark, the only thing even remotely clear in the darkness. "Fidelio and his family have run this place for nearly a hundred and fifty years now. I solved some little quandary of theirs a few years hence, and as such am always welcome with whatever strange requests I might make."

Watson dug out the packet of analgesics out of his pocket and took possession of a glass of water that had been placed on the table. The pills were rather like putting out a bonfire with a pipette, but just taking them made him feel better. With the wondrous ice slowly soaking the heat and pain from his wounds, he slowly began to calm down from the attack and the aftermath.

"The violin is very good," Watson commented, rubbing a hand across his face.

Holmes gave a snort. "That's rather like saying Everest is very tall. Luici is ninety one years old, and he tells me he's been playing for ninety. He can neither read nor write. He's seen both World Wars, and took his violin to the second one. His whole life is music – he is, in fact, Music itself in a way; all the passion and colour and selfishness and pain and love. It would take a series of books to fully divulge his life story, he has been to so many places."

Watson craned his head to see if he could get a glimpse of this virtuoso, but the dark was too impenetrable. "You learned the violin from him?"

Holmes steepled his fingers. "I learned violin from various tutors and technicians and from hours of practice. I learned _music_ from Luici." Was all he said on the matter.

Watson leaned back against the wall. "You lead an interesting life. I've known you about fifteen hours and I've already gone through one mysterious death, one breaking and entering, found a perfect place to stay and been accosted on the street."

"Oh now, Watson," Holmes spoke with mock aggravation. "You can't blame me for the latter. They were after _you_. Though you were indeed fortunate that you had my assistance."

"I'm just not sure if I could _live_ with you, Holmes," Watson continued, because this had been nagging at him. "I don't know if you've noticed, by my nerves are as brittle as blown glass. I came back from a war. I don't know if I'm ready to more adventures just yet. I want quiet. I need quiet."

"And you think that saying no to sharing apartment with yours truly will guarantee this for you?" Holmes asked mockingly. "You're using reverse logic, Doctor. The kind of asinine reasoning of not taking pills so you won't get sick. Surely you can do better than that."

Watson turned to face the darkness, and said nothing.

"But of course if you come to live with me, you will become interested in living again. And once you become interested you will start to care, and we both know what happened the last time you cared."

Watson was so shocked he nearly fell off his chair. "That's not..."

"It is," Holmes insisted. "I'm not blaming you, because feeling is somewhat alien to my nature. But I will not let whatever hammered in anxieties the war left you with get in the way of what could be a perfect circumstance for me personally."

"Golly, you're such a compassionate, selfless person Holmes," Watson jabbed sarcastically, feeling defensive.

Holmes shrugged. "Just because it's a selfish reason doesn't mean it's not good for you either. Whatever this hesitation is, Watson, wherever it comes from, it's just a fear. Fears must be faced to be defeated. Whatever your other faults, I severely doubt bravery has ever been a problem for you."

Watson said nothing, because Holmes had him there. He was beginning to think this was going to be a recurring scenario.

"Besides, I did just save your life," Holmes shifted back to his usual overbearing tone. "Doesn't that earn me an irrevocable favour in your soldierly codes of honour?"

Watson snorted. "I saved your big brain from leaking out all over the pavement care of a pipe. The favours are cancelled out."

Holmes waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, hardly. The cane was _useful_, no doubt, but not necessary."

"So that wasn't you I saw jumping around like a headless chicken and taking to his heels when that brute came at you with a big metal stick?" Watson asked casually.

Holmes sputtered. "_Headless chicken_? Doctor, you have clearly taken a blow to the head. You were seeing things. I had things perfectly under control. I didn't see you managing quite so well. You were on your back most of the time." Holmes gave a disdainful twist of his mouth at this appraisal of fighting technique.

"I took on a guy with a bowie knife completely unarmed _and_ being restrained. One little pipe and you were looking for the nearest exit," Watson scoffed.

"In the first, that pipe was not _little_, you observation blind cad; and in the second, who, exactly had a bloodletting and needed icepacks afterwards? Oh, that's right, it was you," Holmes flicked a contemptuous hand. "No strategy, no redirection of forces, just plain old juvenile brute strength. That's the army mindset all over – when all else fails, hit it with a bigger hammer."

Watson laughed. He couldn't stop himself. Holmes cutting observations were sharp and merciless, but for some reason still as funny as hell.

Holmes seemed rather gratified by Watson's sudden releasing of tension. "So, now we come to the end of the intended experiment."

"We have?" Watson asked, still amused.

"Yes indeed. You remember at the start of the evening, you needed the opportunity to find out if I would make a suitable roommate for your needs. Please," he flourished a hand. "Do elucidate your observations on my august person forthwith." A light of challenge was in his sharp grey eyes.

"Alright," Watson settled back in his chair. "Ahem – Sherlock Holmes, his limits."

"Ah, a title," was the sardonic observation from across the table.

"Knowledge of literature – nil."

"And your reasoning?"

"You asked me who Harry Potter was."

"Well, who is Harry Potter and what the deuce does he have to do with literature?"

Watson nodded. "My point exactly. Knowledge of philosophy – nil."

"Now that is unfair. I expound on many philosophies."

"Yes, you do. Except they are all yours."

"So? It still _counts_," Holmes rotated a long hand on a thin wrist. "Pray continue."

"Knowledge of astronomy – nil. I actually had to explain to you that the Earth revolves around the sun and turns on an axis, which has been established fact for about, oh, four hundred years or so now."

"I can't imagine why that's important," Holmes sniffed. "There is only a limited amount of space in my brain attic, and I can only allow the most pertinent information to remain."

Watson stared at him, before continuing. "Knowledge of politics – feeble. You seem to know about the basic workings, but you still thought Margaret Thatcher was the prime minister."

"You should be glad I could even remember that," Holmes snorted. "I could actually care less about who runs this cesspool."

"Knowledge of Botany – variable," Watson wobbled a flat hand. "You seem to know poisonous materials at a glance, and frankly I did not need to know that about common parsley. You don't seem to have any knowledge of practical gardening."

"I can't see why that should be clear to you," Holmes protested, but he was watching Watson with interest.

"You said the front of the flat looked untidy. They were bulbs, Holmes, they're supposed to look like that some of the year."

"That seems very inefficient."

Watson sighed. "Knowledge of Geology – practical, but limited. You do a great amount of forensic observation of every bit of mud, dirt, dust and ash in London, judging from the way you tracked the train passengers every move that day, but you wouldn't know a geode from a piece of granite."

"I still think I have the advantage of that equation. Why would I need to know how a lump of stone formed a billion years before it was used to stove someone's head in? I'd say that latter is the real event."

"Knowledge of Chemistry – profound. You do it for a living, evidently; you came up with a test that had to be patented; there is of course the knowledge of poisons mentioned earlier - and you could rattle off a list of nearly thirty separate chemical components of a woman's cosmetics off the top of your head in that train."

Holmes just grinned, and said nothing.

"Knowledge of Anatomy – Accurate, but unsystematic. You know enough to hit nerve points while fighting and general systems and reactions of the body. Stamford mentioned you go down to beat cadavers in the morgue when you're bored to test the effects of various weapons, and apparently you've written in reputable journals about it."

"I won't be trying surgery anytime soon, but I have my little facts stored away," Holmes nodded with mock humility.

"Knowledge of Sensational Literature – immense. I think I've heard stories from every age about every murder filled street from here to Baker Street, and I have no doubt there's more. You seem to know every foul deed perpetrated in the city for the last century."

"My chosen field of interest. To be fair, many of them are immensely similar," Holmes commented, taking a bottle of wine from a waiter as they came over with the food.

"You play the violin."

"Really doctor, I did just _tell_ you that," Holmes dismissed this observation.

"You are an expert boxer and fencer, with some as yet undefined wrestling technique and something else which is quite close to fencing."

"Singlestick," Holmes supplied, pouring a pair of glasses.

Watson blinked. "Singlestick, as in the British Navy singlestick? As in last used in the last century, singlestick?"

Holmes looked mildly affronted. "It's a perfectly workable technique. Eskrima has been about the place since at least the 1500's, so you have no right to snobbery."

Watson grinned. "Last but not least, you have a practical working knowledge of British law, judging by the way you cautioned the thugs on their right to silence and on the adverse inferences of keeping silent therein."

"It's convoluted and fraught with idiocies but, alas, is the only one we have," Holmes was stoic in his disappointment. "I must say, Doctor, you have an uncomplicated observational faculty that, while you may miss the pertinent details, nevertheless gives you an accurate assessment of the obvious."

Watson refused to be riled. "If I am wrong, please let me know," was his mild retort.

"Oh you weren't _wrong_, it just that you took a cup of knowledge when an ocean was available to you. Oh well, one must accept the shortcomings of others as best one can."

"I'm with you there," Watson nodded ironically.

"So, what opinions have you formed of my profession?" Holmes tapped his fingertips on table imperiously, demanding an answer.  
"Forensics, forensic chemistry, psychological profiling, criminal behaviour, criminal history, methods of death, plus the police call you in to consult," Watson listed carefully all the professional attributes noted so far. "You talk of solving problems, seeing clients and you called crime your field of interest... my uncomplicated observational faculty is seeing a certain pattern here. The only thing I can think is your some sort of," Watson grinned and winked. "Private detective."

Holmes nearly smacked his head on the table in despair. "Watson, you were doing so _well_. It is typical of you that the instant you show some glimmer of proper reasoning you shine it in completely the wrong direction."

Watson, who had thought that was a fairly probable choice, merely raised his eyebrows.

Holmes held up a thunderous finger. "_I_" said he. "Am no two penny chaser of adulterers and petty thieves. I do not get up in the morning to put my not inconsiderable intellect to the task of chasing stupid criminals for their even more asinine victims. Mine is not the world of the real estate con or the industrial espionage. I do not wander around with a camera to take the doldrums recordings of whatever scandal some upper crust dimwit needs to have on some even pettier rival, nor ensure discretion for the dimwit actually in the scandal. Do you really think that little of my extraordinary mental powers? I am wounded."

Watson responded to this offended outrage with a roll of his eyes. "Holmes, when I wound you; trust me, _you'll know_."

Holmes continued his diatribe. "Many people are experts on the many aspects of crime, my dear Watson. I am an expert on Crime _as an entire phenomenon_. It's past, present and even to some extent it's future, the science and the nature of the whole thing. How it starts, how it grows, what forces push and pull it, the how's, the why's. Many may be experts on one or two aspects of crime and it's nature, but I venture to claim not one of them can connect all the aspects together the way it has within my mind, into the thing and the whole of the thing. Those experts may be able to say anything with certainty within their own narrow confines, but when a wider view is needed, when the detectives on the street cannot find a solution because their thinking is too limited and too mundane, they call me. Through my complete understanding, and my own little methods, I find answers where all others have failed."

Watson looked as the sheer super nova of belief and confidence radiating from Holmes and thought to himself, the man is an atheist. He couldn't possibly believe in any intangible god as much as he believes this. "So you are a...?" Watson prodded.

"I am a _consulting_ detective, and I'll wager the only one in England," Holmes spoke with triumph.

"A fact I personally thank God for."

Watson jumped as he realised Inspector Lestrade was standing by the table, looking fit to be tied.

"Inspector, do take a seat," Holmes gestured invitingly. "Wine?"

"I'm on duty; and thank you for that, by the way," Lestrade muttered as he sat down. "I _was _on my way home when a call came over the police scanner advising of a street assault involving a gang of armed thugs, one police surgeon and one consultant. I _had_ to see that." Lestrade reached to the radio on his belt. "Cooper, send one of those paramedics to Marcini's will you?" There was a crackling affirmative reply before he put the radio away. "I can see the blood on your pant leg, Doctor. Anything else we need to know?"

"Many, many things, Lestrade, though none that have any bearing on this particular case," Holmes replied unctuously.

"Have you two drunk any of that yet?" Lestrade asked on the wine bottle.

"Not yet," Watson affirmed.

"Well don't, until you have a breath test," Lestrade ordered, taking the glasses out of reach. "This will be much, much simpler if there no question of inhibition on your part. Your statements, please; and Holmes, I'm imposing a five thousand word limit on yours."

They went over the facts briefly but accurately while a paramedic arrived and did standard checks and other medical things with needles and swabs. A constable came with the breathalyser and a camera. The procedure wheel turned, slowly but surely. The medic pronounced Watson's cut shallow and not serious, as the brace had taken the worst of the blow. Lestrade asked them to come into the station the next day, and get the injuries properly catalogued. Watson's cane was taken for evidence, much to his chagrin; he was kindly loaned one by the paramedic, a foam and aluminium affair that just didn't feel right at all.

Lestrade grunted as he pushed his pen into his notepad for the final time. "Well gentlemen, I am slightly impressed you managed to even survive, and extremely impressed you are mostly unscathed. This most likely won't go to trial with the evidence you've given, but we'll need signed statements and so on from you to clad the case in iron. And yes, I do mean from you as well Mr Holmes," he glared at the detective who merely smiled at him innocently. "Doctor, I'll let Dr Nokey know you'll be off tomorrow at least. Oh don't worry," he added when Watson moved to protest. "This'll be _all_ over Scotland Yard in the next hour. Take the day, it'll help avoid the interrogations from your co-workers."

Watson conceded dismally on that point, much to Holmes amusement.

Watson had an interesting night, following that unique evening. They had left Lestrade at Marcini's after finishing up their meals, the Inspector dismally chewing on a breadstick while he waited for a late takeaway dinner. Watson prayed fervently that the small man would not take mortal offense over the fact they – or rather, Holmes – had left him with the bill. Watson himself had only realised no money had changed hands at the door of his room, much to Holmes glee. The eccentric man wished him a good night while Watson choked, and left chuckling and humming to himself.

Watson had been only in the mood to sleep at the restaurant, but once alone and showered and cleaned, found his brain fairly revving with energy. He considered reading a novel, but rejected that almost immediately. He needed to actually do something other than absorb words.

That's when his eyes fell on the journal.

One of the psychologists at the evacuation hospital in Germany had given it to him. _Get it out of you_, he had recommended. Watson had ignored this, because he barely had anything _in_ him at that point – he barely had a heart to beat or a mind to think. There were no words left inside the hollow that the bullets and the blood had left behind. Just the ghosts, the goddamn ghosts, a cemetery of can't, won't, and not anymore's, the spectre of an erased identity.

But now they bubbled up like an aquifer, pure, clean, soothing. Holmes' words, however self-centred, had broken through the bedrock and brought all the buried things to the surface.

Watson wrote. He wrote about coming home, he wrote about Drebber and the mystery and the city. He wrote about Sherlock Holmes, that half-mad harlequin and unmatchable mind dressed in the body of scarecrow and the manner of a petulant child, who had discovered the method for turning all the basest and shameful elements, the meaninglessness, the ugliness and the futility and the selfishness into order and logic and rationality, who took the raw mishmash of sights and the discordant din of noise and made instead a painting and a symphony, ludicrous and precious – and priceless.

Watson realised he wouldn't trade that worldview for anything.

Watson wrote until his hand cramped and he switched sides, he wrote until dawn broke over the city and until the morning papers came out on the street, he wrote until he ran out of pages and started scrounging for any other scraps he could find, he wrote until he realised he was writing about the war, all those faces and friends he'd left buried there while his ghost arrived at a London airport. He wrote until the tears soaked the pages.

Maybe he really was oblivious, like Holmes had said. Until the genius and poked and worried and prodded him and sliced open all his silences and secrets, until he'd been challenged and infuriated and amused by the eccentric detective, until he'd been actually emotionally engaged, Watson had completely failed to realise that even further back than Afghanistan, he'd felt nothing at all.

Now the flood was drowning him, and it was an epiphany. Forget bulwarks of compassion, forget focusing on the positive. Don't ask how my attitude will help me. Ask _how can I help_.

It was cathartic. Watson slept, and for once he didn't dream.

...

End Chapter Seven


	8. Chapter Eight: Baiting the Hook

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Adult Themes, light bad language

Authors Note: Best just to post this one; this is bit of plot tie-in and exposition, mostly. Remember, we are trying to solve a mystery here! Watson heavy, but worry not, Holmes is due to reappear soon.

Please ready & review!

...

Chapter Eight – Baiting the Hook

...

Watson's day off proved instructive. For one thing, he never knew his physical therapist - a tall, goliath of a man who hailed from the Caribbean - knew that many swear words in that many languages. He kept up an impressive flood of vitriol while Watson stretched, lifted, walked, twisted, rotated, crunched and rolled his way through a series of exercises, sweat poring off his face and into his impressive black eye. That was the only expression of pain he would allow himself, mostly because he could do nothing to prevent it.

When he was finished he lay exhausted and wet and gasping like a fish out of water while the therapist 'hummed' and 'harred' over his injuries and bruises, checking his progress against his record. After an eternal pause the big man growled that by some astronomical and deeply undeserved miracle Watson had not actually set himself back too far, just like the last time. He had added acidly that it would be a great help if Watson could, perhaps, if it wasn't too much trouble, keep from getting into street fights and muggings everywhere he went.

Watson just grinned at him, heaving himself up the get changed. The smile seemed to shock the therapist. Watson wondered if it was the first time the big man had actually seen him smile. Had he really smiled so little, or were they all so painfully false that they hadn't counted? Something to muse over.

Watson collected his cane (he hoped he could get his old one back soon, but the thing he was carrying now felt as much use as a feather), and headed to the police station. His report was written up and signed, questions were asked. The young officer taking the statement listened with awe to the point by point report.

"Has Holmes been here to make his report?" Watson asked as he rose to go.

The look of sheer, tortured, recalled agony on the young officer's face was all the answer Watson needed. He laughed all the way back to the hotel.

What was relevant about his day was the fact that Watson never thought to check his mobile phone. If he had, the day may have turned out very differently.

Watson in fact checked his phone midway through the afternoon on the day he came back to work, still annoyed over his stupid aluminium cane. He had slept late and rushed out the door to make it to work in time, forgoing breakfast, which never failed to put him in a bad mood, and jamming the mostly ignored phone into his pocket as he went for the door.

Once there he was writing up reports from the day before yesterday. He lingered on Drebber's, trying to see it the way Holmes must see it. He gave it up as futile. All he could tell from a medical standpoint was that Drebber was out of shape, a heavy drinker, he liked rich food and expensive suits and had died a vicious death.

Somewhere around lunchtime Watson realised his phone was buzzing on silent mode, and dug it out. A message popped up: '_Come if convenient, and if not come all the same. 14 Montague Street. SH.'_

Watson sighed. Why was he surprised Holmes was just as demanding and arrogant in his missives than he was in person?

Then Watson frowned as the inbox of the phone appeared on the screen. 157 Messages.

One hundred and fifty seven messages? Watson scrolled through them, bewildered. Most of them had pictures, of women and of women's hands and fingers, all with rings. And the messages that coupled them...

_I lost it a week ago, around that area...It's engraved with initials DP and GP...Is there any diamond on it...pls call me back on this number...this number...my number...this number_...

Watson was still staring at his phone when it rang, and he nearly dropped it in the process. "Watson?" the greeting was half a question. He'd heard London was a strange place, but have a hundred and fifty seven women leave messages on a total stranger's phone?

"_Doctor Watson? It's Evelyn Hudson._" Was the polite introduction from the line.

"Mrs Hudson, hello," Watson hastily re-focused his priorities.

"_I hope I haven't caught you at an inconvenient time, Doctor."_

"On no, not at all," Watson assured, hitting print on the report he'd just finished. "It's my lunchtime here anyway." And he needed food before he gnawed his own leg off – the bad one first, of course.

"_In regards to your bid to let the rooms, Doctor,_" Mrs Hudson began.

"I'm sorry my references were a little thin, Mrs Hudson. Most of the people who know me are still in another time zone and out of reach." Another time zone and in most cases a completely different plane of existence, his mind couldn't help but remind him.

"_That was no trouble to me, Doctor. Doctor Stamford gave you a good review, that was really all I needed to know,_" Mrs Hudson reassured. "_I'm happy to let you and Mr Holmes have the rooms, Doctor. Short term lease to start with, longer if it works out well._"

Watson blew out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "Really? That's fantastic! Thank you Mrs Hudson, I can't tell you how grateful I am."

He could hear a smile in the woman's voice as she replied. "_You are welcome to move in any time. Do you have a day in mind_?"

Watson considered this. "I'll have to consult with Holmes, but I will call you and let you know."

"_Oh yes, Mr Holmes_," was the lady's dark reply. "_Well, you seem a good sort doctor, so I suppose I can take a leap of faith if you can_." Mrs Hudson gave a sniff. "_There is no account for taste, of course_."

Watson covered his eyes with his hand. "Thank you Mrs Hudson. I'll contact you again very soon."

"_Good day, Doctor_."

"Goodbye."

Watson shut off the phone, face still burning.

"Doctor Watson?"

Watson turned to see a young constable looking through the door of the shared office. "Yes?"

"Come with me please, sir," the constable replied. "The Inspectors want a word with you."

Puzzled, Watson followed the man, pocketing his phone as he did so.

As they were walking up to the main area of the CID, Watson tried to find out why he was being asked for.

The constable shrugged. "Can't say, guv. Inspector Gregson seemed a mite riled, though."

Watson accepted this in puzzlement. He had no idea why they would need to see him personally. He was lead into the Homicide division, past the busy bull pen with murder boards crisscrossing the space around desks and chairs. Detectives of various ranks were all working and talking busily around the room. Watson was directed toward a small side office which contained an overflowing desk, behind which Inspector Lestrade sat, having a heated argument with Inspector Gregson who towered over the desk with both fists resting on it.

"You labour under your deficiencies with grace, Lestrade, but don't pretend for a moment that you actually have the brains for this. Who _cares_ who the man was travelling with? We need to trace Drebber's steps, not some hitherto unknown travelling companion!"

"If we can trace his companion, Gregson, we can trace Drebber. We might also find out if the man had any enemies," Lestrade growled. "It's that little thing we call 'police work'."

"Ah, and he we come to the crux of this little quandary," Gregson sneered. "You are agreeing with that infuriating amateur's psychological profile about this being a revenge killing? It's a sad thing to see a man having to rely on someone else to do his thinking for him!"

Lestrade's knuckles were white over the edge of the desk. "I'm not agreeing over anything. Good grief man, look at the statistics! People are more likely to be murdered by people they know! If Strangerson didn't kill Drebber, why hasn't he contacted the police to find his missing companion? And even if he is not involved, he can still give us information on Drebber's life!"

"Statistics," Gregson dismissed. "Statistics didn't give us the man's boarding house address, and they won't give us the man's killer. It's perfectly clear – writing literally on the wall - this is a ritual killing, and most likely home grown; that's what our people are saying. We need to find the lunatic and drop him before he takes it into his head to kill again. Stop subcontracting you're mental powers out to consulting lunatics and start being an actual detective, will you?"

Lestrade was on his feet, almost at the moment Watson's cane slammed down onto the desk, making both men jump.

Watson drew himself to attention. "Do you wish to speak to me now, Inspectors, or would you rather drop your pants while I get out the yardstick?" he barked in his best Major voice. "Do let me know." He added acidly.

The Inspectors both stared at him, Lestrade surprised and Gregson with a gimlet eye. Watson, taught to give orders to trained killers, stared them both down. A trick he'd taken from Afghanistan, along with his scars. Watson hadn't fought a war to let co-workers come to blows before him.

Tension was released from the atmosphere, and both men apparently cooled their tempers in the face of an irritated and hungry army-trained Medical Examiner. Lestrade settled back behind his desk and gestured to a spare chair. "My apologies, Doctor. The American consulate is, to put it mildly, ever so slightly displeased to find out a prominent citizen is coming home in a coffin, so we're _all_," he shot a dark glare at his fellow Inspector. "A little overworked at the moment." Lestrade twisted around to grab a pot of tea off an element which had been stuck on top of a filing cabinet and offered Gregson a cup as a sort of peace offering.

Watson settled into the chair. "Fair enough, though you could try not to be overworked at the top of your lungs." Watson grimaced. "I don't know how things work in a police department, but fights between superiors killed morale while I was in the service."

The Inspectors had the grace to look a little chagrined, and Watson hoped and prayed they didn't realise that they were being talked down to by someone whom they themselves technically outranked. Watson couldn't help it – he hated rows with a passion, they made his stripped nerves itch.

"You wanted to see me?" Watson prompted.

Gregson looked grim and annoyed. "Doctor, we realise you are new here but we would appreciate it if you would educate yourself on proper procedures and evidence collection." He took the tea from Lestrade and fixed the Doctor with a hard look. "Where is the ring from Lauriston Gardens? I don't need to tell you that if you have taken evidence from the scene of a crime, the consequences will be absolutely dire."

Watson blanked mentally. "What? What ring? You mean the one found under the body?"

"The _other_ one, Doctor," Lestrade replied. "From out on the street. If you have it, best speak up now. You may have picked it up without realising the space of the perimeter, which is fine, but we need it and we need you to tell us where you found it."

Watson looked from one unyielding face to the other, completely lost. "_What ring_? What are talking abo..." Watson stopped, the hundred and fifty seven messages flashing up from his memory.

"You don't know?" Lestrade questioned seriously.

"Know what?" Watson demanded. "I know we found one wedding ring, belonging to a woman, under the deceased man. I never found a second one, anywhere. If I had I would have told you," he held up empty palms. "I have no second ring, I found no second ring. Why do you think I did?"

Lestrade leaned back and shared a glance with the blonde Inspector. Gregson nodded back. "So, I'm guessing you didn't have anything to do with this." He held up a section of paper with a black circle marked across it.

Watson took the page and read while his jaw dropped open. _FOUND – ONE WOMAN'S WEDDING RING ON THE ROADWAY BETWEEN HARTLAND TAVERN AND HOLLAND GROVE. PLEASE SEND A TEXT MESSAGE AND PHOTO OF RING IF POSSIBLE TO THE FOLLOWING NUMBER, AND CONTACT WILL BE MADE IF MATCH FOUND. APPLY TO JOHN H WATSON_.

"I didn't..." Watson trailed off, thinking about baits and hooks. "I think Holmes did this." And he was dead meat the minute Watson could get out of here, the insufferable cad. He was just lucky the Inspectors had decided to actually talk to him first, instead of dismissing him on the spot.

Lestrade groaned. "I thought so. It sounds like something he'd do. I've already received a ten minute lecture and a monograph on police reporting and procedures from the man yesterday while I was trying to get my money back for your dinners," he shot Watson an irritated glare, but it was a glare focused at one remove.

"He told you about Rance?" Watson asked.

Lestrade offered tea to Watson, before receiving a decline and pouring his own. "Oh yes, in great detail. And because misery loves company, Rance is currently wishing he'd never been born."

Watson frowned. "I hope he hasn't been penalised too harshly; he did what a lot of men would do in that situation."

Lestrade took a scalding swallow. "Nothing too harsh. Some docked pay and a desk assignment for a week. Why your interest?"

"He has a family," Watson shrugged.

Lestrade snorted. "Relax, Doctor. If every officer Holmes thought was incompetent was sacked, we wouldn't _have_ a police force. Rance will learn something about proper procedures for next time, and in the meantime we have a vague description and a timeline to work with." He gave a disheartened sigh.

"What is the state of the case?" Watson asked curiously.

To this Gregson replied. "A shambles, mostly. Drebber entered the country about three weeks or so ago, on a lecture tour for some religious organisation."

"He was a priest?" Watson asked in some surprise.

Lestrade shook his head. "Some sort of religious elder, attached to a splinter group of the Mormon belief system. The Salt Lake City police called it a fundamentalist church, which is just what we needed. A buffet of fervent believers with a rulebook from centuries past that makes any common sense police officer break out in a cold sweat – everything from blood sacrifice to overbearing righteousness in putting words in the mouth of God," Lestrade rubbed his temples. "Chauvinism and polygamy seem to be the big ones for this particular group."

"Polygamy?" Watson's eyebrows rose. "Multiple wives and so forth like the age of Arabian Nights? People still do that?"

"There's not a single past-expiry-date practice that you can't find in some religious organisation, somewhere," Lestrade snorted. "This particular church, the locals tell me, is not popular among the modern feminist mindset which no doubt stymies the wife-count somewhat. One of the reasons we're still waiting on information about Drebber is the fact that the church he's affiliated with is very reluctant to part with information about him."

"So we don't know anything about him yet?" Watson questioned, looking from one man to the other.

"Nothing yet. The religious foundation in the UK," Lestrade checked his notes. "Heart of Souls told us they'd never actually met the man before, except through an international religious posting board – they'd asked for speakers from around the world to talk about the everyday faith and so on and so forth. They did say," here he shot a dark look at Gregson. "That the arrangements for the lectures were made by Drebber's secretary, a man named Joseph Strangerson. They went all over Europe, Spain, France, Sweden, Switzerland; their last stop was Copenhagen. There was a J. Strangerson listed on all the same flights as Drebber, so they were travelling together. Strangerson however, is currently in the wind. The foundation branch in Britain, specifically Liverpool, wasn't expecting the pair for another week. We have no idea where they were staying in London, or what they were up to when they got here."

"_You_ have no idea where they were staying," Gregson's muttered stab was just above audible.

Lestrade glared at him before turning to the Doctor. "Anything extra to add into the report?"

Watson shook his head. "Not much more that wasn't already known. The poison was a hemotoxin, the lab is still identifying the possible sources. Stomach contents turned up a steak dinner with roast potatoes, string beans, stuffed mushrooms, carrots and a lot of alcohol; mostly red wine and brandy, indicating he ate within a few hours of death. His blood alcohol was point two-five. The really interesting thing? One partially dissolved capsule, the kind you'd find in any common cold and flu remedy. "

Gregson snorted. "Why is that interesting?"

Watson shot him a look. "The interesting thing is that it was only partially dissolved. These things don't last long in the stomach. He would have to have taken it less than a quarter of an hour before death, most likely sooner. Since there was no injection sites this, Inspector, might have been the method of poisoning."

Gregson sat back. "Fair enough. I suppose in his state it would have been easy enough to force him to swallow."

"Other than that, no marks of violence, ligatures or abuse, save a peri-mortem bruise from a fall of three to five feet on one bicep – consistent with him hitting the floor hard," Watson finished.

"No indications or traces left by the killer?" Gregson demanded.

"None, save the bloody nose," Watson stated firmly.

Gregson waved this detail off irritably. "Send us your report, doctor, as detailed as is practicable. The Yanks want everything in triplicate."

Watson sensed this was a dismissal of a busy man, and rose to go. Lestrade looked up from his gloomy survey of his notes, and asked. "Before you go, may I ask exactly what you and Holmes were doing wandering the streets in the early night and getting mugged? The suspects all pled out for assault, by the way."

"Business," Watson said shortly, tapping his useless cane against the ground. "Does that mean I can get my cane back?"

"I'll see what I can do," Lestrade nodded, raising an eyebrow. "Business?"

"We were flat-hunting. Holmes and I are going to split rooms."

Lestrade wasn't quick enough to avoid the spray of high velocity lukewarm tea that was fired from Gregson's position, and Watson looked back and forth from the two men as they choked and spluttered, amused and horrified.

"R-r-rooms? A flat," Gregson coughed virulently, going crimson. "Go-going to _share_?"

"You and _Holmes_?" Lestrade asked far more clearly than his counterpart, scrubbing his face in a vexed way. He shot Watson an incredulous look over the top of his handkerchief. "Doctor, you can't possibly be that desperate."

"You haven't gone house hunting in this city for a while, have you?" Watson replied sardonically. "Besides, it's fine. Between us we can afford a fantastic place on Baker Street."

"Monetary concerns are not the key issue with sharing a room with Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade was wide eyed. "How can you _stand_ the man for longer than ten minutes? You have to threaten him with grievous bodily harm to even get him to _admit_ there is such a thing as a social code of conduct. What did you do, blackmail him? Not that I mind that, crime or not. Not where Holmes in concerned."

Watson blinked, and tried to see what they were fussed about. "Er...I speak softly and carry a big gun?" he essayed tentatively. "I don't have any problems with him or his personality," Watson repeated, and then added in the face of their thousand pound stares. "Well, not insurmountable ones, anyway."

Lestrade shook his head. "You're a far braver man than I, Doctor."

Watson wondered if the looks of shock and pity that he was receiving should be telling him something – or if they would be become commonplace around him.

...

End Chapter Eight


	9. Chapter Nine: Our Ad Brings a Visitor

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Adult Themes, Light Bad Language

Authors Notes: Lots to chew on here! I couldn't find a convenient place to break this one up, so it's fairly long chapter. I did have great fun imagining Holmes rooms though!

Please read & review.

...

Chapter Nine: Our Advertisement Brings a Visitor

...

One look at 14 Montague Street and you could instantly see Holmes motivation for leaving as quickly as possible. It was a huge, turn of the century rotting wood boarding house, so clearly derelict that it was hard to imagine anyone walking through it without fear of their life. The landlady, a nearly visible cloud of alcoholic indulgence hovering around her and leaving trails of ghostly gin wherever she went, grunted Watson upstairs; the mere twelve feet she walked putting a vivid red varnish on her cheeks and unpleasant sweat glistening on her face. On the way, Watson discreetly knocked unheeded empty chemical cans and other abandoned garbage from the path with his borrowed cane. The unloved and unclean odours and general despondent air of the dank hallways lined with doors was like a lead weight on the soul, even though some effort had been made to varnish the floors and walls to an almost overwhelming slickness. Watson could smell the wood treatments in the air, thick and cloying. It seemed an odd thing to do if the garbage wasn't also picked up as well.

Watson politely waited until the grunting and weaving landlady cursed her way back to her lair below, and then knocked on the door to Holmes' room and waited. And waited.

And waited. Finally he gave up and gently turned the knob, which shrieked in protest. The door opened in a shower of rotting splinters and pivoted loose onto one hinge; it's brother dropped to the floor. Wrestling with the suddenly all askew door, a horrified Watson manoeuvred inside and braced the door back on it's jams. By some miracle it held.

Shocked and embarrassed, Watson turned to survey the rooms of the great Sherlock Holmes.

It was everything and nothing he expected. The one room was only very small, about twice the size of Watson's own storage locker, but it contained far more than a room so small should probably hold. A chaotic mismatch of chemical supplies and equipment marched across the floor and on every available service, waging a war of space against a paper mill of books, newspapers, journals and other such paraphernalia, most of the pages dripping with bookmarks or graffitied with savage pen and pencil marks of all descriptions. Books were open to all pages, some actually ripped out, others doubling as flat surfaces for beakers, test tubes, stirrers, retorts, droppers. Not one but two microscopes wobbled precariously atop mountains of paper and miscellanea, and there were big bulky machines which Watson was pretty sure was an actual gas chromatographer and mass spectrometer, a tangled nest of cables leading from them and weighing down a particularly battered looking old laptop jammed almost carelessly between a bulky tool roll containing what looked like burglary tools of all descriptions and pile of graphic crime scene photos.

The chaos extended to nearly the furthest reaches of the low roofed walls – whatever vertical space wasn't taken up with newspaper articles, technical diagrams and more chemistry equipment hammered into hooks was taken up with pipes, bats, truncheons, knives of all calibres, some of which bristled out of the umbrella stand like a bamboo forest and a blackboard almost white with chalk dusk was propped across the one window, blocking any incoming light and giving the one bare light bulb, probably last changed when Edison was still alive, exclusive illumination rights.

Aside from the stand and the blackboard, there was a bookshelf that did not contain a single book; just row after row of chemical components in all manner of jar and carton and a few rickety card tables holding the same. There was also a couch; although this was not immediately apparent. It was half buried under papers, books, clothes and equipment to the point where it was just a shapeless mound of chaos, at the top of which a lonely violin jutted up like a flag. That was it for the furniture – there simply wasn't room for anything else.

It was astonishingly chaotic. But as Watson carefully navigated his way across the floor – what could even be seen of it – he began to see there was a sort of method in this madness. Every scrawled notation on the walls, like 'ROBBERY IN MAYFAIR PARK, THIEVES NOT FOUND' had a list of jagged observations next to it – _group of three, more wealthy than victims, young, note the imitation jewellery in the safe left_ along with a list of reference notes – _SEE notes on the Highgate Affair, get records f/ Collins, Lemac, Rushish – now 20. Profile noted Bedley's 'Study on Psychological Aspects of Affluent Sub-groups', Chap 3, pg 59, Wang Xie 'Young Emperors' Chap 14 pg 123. _There was a sketch of the crime scene – not true to life but so clear and raw in it's stark, minimalist lines that it was still like being there.

Writings, violence, death and deviance surrounded Watson. It was, he ruefully acknowledged, a very Holmesian environment, right down to the missing conventional staples of most places of sleep – like a bed or a chair, or anything of that kind.

Watson was concerned that this ripple of orderly disaster was typical of Holmes' living spaces, although the rigidly orderly lined and labelled chemical shelves gave a glimmer of hope that the man knew what neatness was for. He was just considering whether he could risk moving anything to clear a space to sit in without bringing everything in the room crashing down from whatever precarious balance held it, the door swung in and half off it's hinges again, though Holmes just calmly shoved it back into place with the ease of long practice.

"Watson, there you are," was his opening statement as he tossed an impressive armful of flattened cardboard boxes carelessly across the mess of one corner and shedding his outer coat in one brisk move. "Of course you have heard from our future landlady, which no doubt rather made up for a bad day in which you missed breakfast and had to confer with the dazzlingly dull intellects that are Gregson and Lestrade. They're a pair of debutantes and jealous as professional beauties when in each other's company. As long as they're not getting in the way of my investigations, they're quite a show to watch when trying to put knives into one another."

Watson's mouth was open. "How did you...you know what? Never mind," he sighed. "I'm sure it's all perfectly clear."

"Oh yes," Holmes grinned. "From the crumb stains on your cuff to the leaky ink mark on your hands – Lestrade is an absolute miser with his stationary costs – your whereabouts have not been hard to deduce."

"Holmes, I need to talk to you about..."

"Baker Street," Holmes cheerfully hopped around Watson and proceeded to dump everything off the camouflaged couch with utter indifference to it's fate. Watson managed to catch the much maligned violin as it sailed past. "Ah yes, I was looking for that. This new woman is going to be an absolute tyrant, Watson; the kind of disapproving disciplinarian who causes mortal men to flee in terror from her glare of disdain. She will be some improvement over my current one," to this Holmes shot a disgruntled glare at the rickety door. "But so would a half trained monkey holding a door key."

"Holmes..." Watson tried to cut into the man's cutting observations.

"Do you know I've spent most of the last day fielding calls from every single one of my two dozen something references? She called _every single one_ including one currently stationed in research in the Antarctic? They were most amused at my circumstances and wasted no time in telling all sorts of lurid falsehoods about my habits," Holmes glared at nothing. "That's gratitude for you. Ah, well, our gambit has still paid off and I treasure the thought of bidding _adieu_ to this monument to squalor, preferably before the esteemed Mrs Dudley gets impatient and burns me to a cinder, as is her plan." Holmes gestured for Watson to sit, and then spun around to start digging through another random shrine of mess.

Watson was momentarily thrown off track by 'burnt to a cinder' and he replied without thinking. "Mrs Hudson called all of yours? She only called one of mine."

Holmes froze and slowly pivoted around. "Only _one_?"

Watson desperately suppressed a smile at the look of solid injured injustice flooding across the other man's face. "Yes, that's right."

A variety of expressions worked their way across Holmes face, finally settling on a sour flavoured look of uncaring disdain. "Well obviously she blindly trusts someone who looks respectable and polite rather than bothering to look deeper, as is the curse of her gender and age. So many older women get taken in by the upright and clean cut facade it's almost amusing," he glanced at Watson from the corner of her eye. "Only one, you say?"

Watson swallowed the laughter bubbling up his throat. "Only one. Stamford," he confirmed, watching Holmes ire increase.

"_Stamford_?" Holmes spat. "_He's_ the one who told that woman about me studying poisonous compounds, the idiot. I had to give a ten minute explanation and practically had to sell my soul to guarantee I wasn't going to slip anything into the water supply," Holmes arms waved exasperatedly. "She is lucky you really are a dully respectable as you seem if she's willing to trust the word of Stamford. I have serious doubts about her mental capacity."

"Oh come on Holmes," Watson protested. "You can't blame her. Not after you went on about clients coming into your rooms needing things that require chemical equipment. Whatever you meant, it sure sounded like drug lab to me! _I_ certainly wouldn't let you have rooms after that."

Holmes dismissed this with one vigorous wave. "It's perfectly obvious that I am more than smart enough not to do something so asinine in my own home! Good grief, that kind of conventional thinking is a dearth of any true intelligence."

Watson took a seat on what was a particularly lumpy couch. "There's a reason why conventional thinking is convention Holmes – it happens a lot," he retorted drily.

Holmes irritably dug a kettle out of the chaos. "That just makes it all the more stupid. Tea?" at a nod he turned back to the instrument, muttering under his breath. "Only one. I'll wager she even thinks all priests are automatically trustworthy."

Watson sighed. "Holmes, I didn't come here to talk to you about this," he redirected firmly. "I got called into the Inspectors today to have explained to me about the dismissible offence of taking evidence from a crime scene with regards to a ring I know absolutely bugger all about. Seeing as I nearly lost my job over an ad I never placed in the paper," he tossed the circled newspaper page to the eccentric man, who caught it and promptly tossed it aside while he turned to the kettle as it boiled. "Would you mind explaining what the hell this is all about?"

Holmes turned from where he'd had his back to Watson and was frowning down at, Watson blinked, Watson's own phone as he scrolled through the messages. Watson's hand flew to his pocket.

"I picked it on the way to the kettle," Holmes explained absentmindedly without even looking up. Forget scepticism, Watson thought in disbelief and annoyance. He does pluck thoughts out of people's heads. The man really is a psychic.

Holmes poured the kettle – which was for some unfathomable reason filled with tea not water – and brought a beaker filled with it over to Watson without ever tearing his eyes off the tiny screen. "Let's see if our suspect is tempted enough..."

Watson took the beaker by the rim with one hand and reached up to grasp the stolen phone in the other, covering the screen. Holmes looked up irritably.

"Holmes," Watson spoke warningly. "Explanations."

Holmes huffed while bringing his own beaker down to the couch impatiently, before starting an irritated and rapid fire retort. "We know the killer bought the ring, because he came back for it. I doubt very much whether he knows for sure where he dropped it after the murder. The ad in the paper along with this," he waggled the phone. "Will draw him out, as long as he can believe that he dropped it on the street and not in the room. Bait on our hook to draw our catch. Happy?"

"Despite what you think of my deductive skills, I did manage to figure that out on my own, Holmes," Watson replied dryly. "What I meant was, why did you drag my name into this? Because let me tell you, having to explain myself to two ranking superiors who are under the pump and not inclined towards mercy right now was not on my list of fun activities for the day, and neither was almost getting sacked. So please..." Watson rotated a hand.

"Well I couldn't very well use my name," Holmes replied haughtily. "My name is becoming known and the killer _might_ recognise it, which would annul the point of the whole thing. But if he believes an innocent third party picked it up, he might be tempted out of the woodwork. Even if he's savvy enough to look up your record, all he will see is a relative newcomer to the force with little to no actual connection to any arresting officer. Hence, the ring was found by you." Holmes continued to scroll through the names they had received. "Hopefully, between this false fishing expedition and the guests who I can hear coming up the hall, we will have our murderer in custody by the week's end."

There was a brief knock, more for customs sake than for functions. Watson turned.

The door rattled open, this time admitting a small pack of boys and young teenagers. They were in the middle of some sort of heated debate about some football match and didn't pause as they ranged about the room with careless familiarity.

They were a ragged bunch – their clothes looked well worn and more than second hand, their shoes were tatty and falling to bits. Personal hygiene seemed to be an optional extra in their lives, but that could be true of many, many boys. Watson was hit by a group stare of various levels of cynicism and animal wariness. They reminded him of the kids he'd seen in Afghanistan – weary veterans of a mean world.

"Wotcher, guv," greeted one lad, more or less the oldest, with dirty blonde hair and the lanky look of someone heading into the wonderful world of growth spurts. His comment was addressed to Holmes, who still hadn't glanced up from the phone. Around them the debate raged on as they kicked a battered ball about the room, rattling and bouncing it off various piles while draping themselves anywhere there was space. "Who's yer mate?"

"John Watson," Watson held out a hand for the boy to shake, holding the boy's gaze. He'd learned to handle kids like this in the war; if you treated them as shorter adults rather than children, you'd get along fine.

The boy nodded in acknowledgement. "Wiggins," he jabbed one dirty thumb at his chest. "An' this here's me platoon; Alfie, Big Dave, Dowser, Liddle, Small Dave and Red. We're 'ere to earn some dosh from the loony," he smirked at Holmes, still engrossed in the phone.

"Good luck with that. I don't think he's taken his medication today," Watson deadpanned, to much general amusement. He calmly turned to intercept a small hand that had been heading toward his gun holster, gripping it firmly but not harshly. "You do not touch that. Ever."

He was subjected to a long stare which dissolved into a saucy grin. "Wotever you say, guv," the small boy agreed.

Having negotiated the initial stage of this difficult political first contact situation, the boys all relaxed and continued their chatter, having got the measure of the stranger in their midst. Not a patronizing toff, not a predator and not a threat, they acknowledged, but to be respected.

"Yer a disgrace to honest thieves everywhere, Small Dave," Wiggin rolled his eyes, to which Small Dave have a sarcastic salute.  
"Like you can talk Mister let's steal earrings fer my bird," one of the others grumbled good naturedly.

"Hey Liddle, you once stole the principal's car," another jeered.

"Borrowed, I borrowed the bloody thing. It don't count as stealin' if yer return it."

"In pieces?"

The arguments degenerated into a slanging match, punctuated by the ball being kicked from debater to debater like the literary conch shell.

Holmes had so far totally ignored them in what seemed to be a standard accepted procedure by the boys, came out of his study. "Troops, 'tention!"

The banter was silenced with a quick wave from Wiggins and the boys turned a surprisingly attentive focus on Holmes.

"Alright my Irregulars," Holmes shot them a commanding glare. "Standard weekly rate for some information gathering is what I need."

"Can we negotiate for a cost o' living increase, guv?" One boy sallied irreverently.

"Only if you can prove to me your cost of living has improved since a month ago," came the amused response. "You're still living with your grandmother, I see. And she still wears that hideous yellow lipstick too."

The other boots all laughed and jeered while the unfortunate rubbed his face sheepishly. "Now that just ain't fair, guv."

Holmes grinned. "Such is life. I'm looking for a taxi which dropped a fare at Lauriston Gardens after midnight two days ago. An independent company, not one of the larger ones. You know who and what to ask by now, I should hope."

Holmes neatly flicked the rolling ball with one turned ankle into Wiggin's possession. "You'll get paid three days from now, not before. Understood?"

A chorus of groans and accusations of unfairness rang out, but the boys all allowed themselves to be chivvied out by Wiggins good naturedly enough. Wiggin's shot Holms a jaunty salute as he disappeared through the askew door.

Watson stared at Holmes as he sipped warily from his beaker as the man refocused on the stolen phone.

"You disapprove, no doubt," Holmes stated, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Watson grunted. "Let's just say I have some reservations about sending children out to hunt for a known killer."

Holmes looked up from the phone, looking deeply and almost pityingly amused. "Watson, those 'children' live on the streets or in families that are falling apart, or in the deepest, darkest and most depraved aspects of this wonderful city. They are often the breadwinners of the family, and the kind of places that hire from that age bracket are not what you'd call respectable, at least not with a straight face. They walk among predators that would make a man eating tiger look like a domestic kitten by comparison; especially as malice is a uniquely human quality. Sometimes they even live with them, under the same roof. For these young people rubbing shoulders with killers is business as usual; or would you prefer I sent out agents who have no idea what a killer's eyes look like, who aren't prepared to face them and have no capacity for survival?" Holmes snorted derisively. "For a war veteran you are surprisingly naive."

Watson grimaced. The worst thing was it was all true. "Isn't this something that the police should and are trained to do? Isn't that what we pay taxes for?"

Holmes waved the phone at Watson, exasperated. "People don't talk to the police! The mere sight of a copper is enough to seal any person's lips shut, even if they have nothing relevant to say. Every person has guilty secrets; mundane, stupid and tedious ones almost all of the time, but they have them. They hold a superstitious fear that the plebeian intellects of Scotland Yard have some sort of magical means to see these idiotic secrets and say nothing, hoping it will help to hide them. Dim-wittedness stacked upon dim-wittedness. But the Irregulars work at the feet and in the shadows of adults, invisible and underestimated. They see all, and hear all, and they know others like them. It's a chain of intelligence running through the foundations of the city that no one even realizes is there. If there is a fact to be known about any event in this city, any trace of a criminal to be found they will find it – much faster and more accurately than the police ever will."

"Maybe," Watson conceded. "But look at the body the man left behind. Look at how vicious and merciless his crime was. This murderer is...extremely dangerous. Something inside his mind has justified him inflicting that on another human being, and that is unfathomable to me. I'd hate to think what would happen if he starts justifying it on everyone he meets or knows."

Holmes looked up from his analysis. "This case seems to have disturbed you. It certainly has made a deep impression in your mind."

"I can't honestly say why," Watson replied frankly. "I've seen bodies of all descriptions Holmes; bullets, mines, nerve gas, car bombs, knives, virulent contagions, – things uglier than even you can imagine. I've seen people, comrades, literally hacked to pieces in front of me but I have never lost my nerve. But that body..." Watson shook his head.

"That was a war," Holmes pointed out after a long silence. "But this is a murder in what is most likely a 'safe' place, at least that's what it is inside your head. And there is a mystery within it which stimulates the imagination. And with no imagination, there is no horror. But courage, my good fellow, there is a sure fire cure for this unease. We can find this man, and once we do he will never kill again. That I will guarantee. There's the scarlet thread of murder running through the colourless skein of life, and our duty is to unravel it, and isolate it, and expose every inch of it."

Holmes refocused on the phone in his hand. "Ah, this could be our man."

Watson leaned over to take a look and saw a brief, to the point message. _'My granddaughter's ring was lost two days ago. May I come and see it? Please respond.'_

"Seems no different than the others, Holmes," Watson commented as he read.

Holmes snorted. "Spare me your ignorant opinions; you have clearly never studied psycholinguistics. You see how proper punctuation and grammar were used? Clearly the work of an older individual, one who was taught English before the generation of chat speak. It's also short and to the point with no explanations and descriptions, and no name. Women would normally leave a name and they'd normally feel compelled to explain themselves. Studies done on suicide notes written by women certainly bear out this tendency. You notice how the writer distanced themselves from the loss, by putting it at one remove from themselves? They're trying to control an emotional response. Oh yes, this was more than likely written by a man; borne out by the fact that there is no photo – any message with photos we could safely dismiss as I doubt this outdoorsman has much use for photo albums, or saving a gallery on their phone. To that kind of decisive and physical personality a phone would be a tool for communication and that's all."

"I'll take your word for it," Watson held up his hand to stem the flow of information, interesting though it was.

"You always struck me as an intelligent man," Holmes nodded pompously, to which Watson snickered. "Now we have him on the hook, we should bring him to us forthwith. We will reply to this plea, you will meet with our suspect, and we will see what more is to be learnt."

"Me?" Watson echoed. "What am I supposed to say to them? Shouldn't Lestrade or Gregson be there?"

Holmes grimaced. "I have no desire to invite their unamusing bumbling into the case at this early stage. Besides, there is always a possibility that this message was written by a grandfather for his granddaughter in which case the profile will be thrown off track."

Watson grinned. "So you don't want to call them because you might look like a fool if you're wrong?"

"Psycholinguistics is more accurate with longer writing samples than two sentences," Holmes sniffed, insulted. "Even I cannot claim omniscience, though I am far closer than most. I am at least ninety percent certain this will be our man, but we will need to be absolutely sure. It might be worthwhile to just let him have the ring, and then follow him when he leaves. It will certainly reveal more about the motives for this crime."

"Fair enough," Watson shrugged. "But this visitor will be coming to collect a ring which I do not, in fact, have. Won't he be suspicious?"

Holmes sprang up off the couch, abandoning both phone and tea beaker while we rummaged through some piles. "That will not present a problem. Ah, here we are." Holmes held out a circlet of gold excavated from the papers to Watson. "This should suffice as a replacement. It took me three pawn shops to find a comparable one."

Watson took the gold wedding ring and looked it over, while Holmes repossessed the phone and began punching out a message in reply. "It's still early. With any luck we can have a satisfactory result by tonight."

"Tonight?" Watson asked, startled. "You're going to have him come now?"

"Within the hour, if all goes to plan," Holmes confirmed, sending the message.

"He's coming here?" Watson looked around the blast radius of a room.

"Don't be ridiculous," Holmes retorted scornfully. "If he's cautious, he'll check who lives here first. No, I have a much better meeting place in mind." He punched buttons on Watson's phone, and connected a call. "Mrs Hudson? It's Sherlock Holmes. Could Watson and I come over and sign the leasing contract tonight, and maybe survey the rooms? We will be moving in on Saturday morning."

Watson spluttered. "Baker Street? We're going to invite a suspected murderer to _Baker Street_?"

...

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Watson muttered darkly as he strode up the stairs. The lease had been signed and rent agreements hashed out, Mrs Hudson going away still suspicious but satisfied. After a solid hour of legal terminology, all Watson wanted to do was grab some food and relax.

"Always remember you did agree," Holmes replied, tranquil and unconcerned. "Our quarry should be here soon. I'd _hoped_ to have more time to get the scope of the rooms," he shot a glare down the stairs at Mrs Hudson's domain. "But that woman insisted on hammering in every single eviction-able offence."

"I wonder why?" Watson retorted artlessly, as they let themselves into their new flat.

Watson had to admit, he felt a thrill of pleasure and satisfaction looking over his new rooms. It would be nice to have somewhere to call home again.

Holmes seemed to echo this feeling, albeit in a very Holmes-like way. "I take full possession of the workbench."

"The writing desk is mine," Watson riposted.

"Hmmm," Holmes wandered over to one window, and peered out onto Baker Street. "You'd better head down to the door, Doctor. If I'm not very much mistaken, our visitor is coming down the street. Best if we divert any worries by our new landlady."

Watson sighed, and turned to go.

"Watson," Holmes called from the window. "Talk to the enquirer normally, and don't glare at them like they're a wanted terrorist. We must see what they know."

Watson waved him off irritably and trod down the stairs, quietly. He opened the door and blinked, surprised, at the figure coming down the walkway. Instead of the man of violence he was expecting, there was a small, wizened old woman, wrapped in a floral dress and shawl. She clutched a bag protectively to her side and walked slowly and carefully in deference to her decalcified bones.

"Does Doctor Watson live here?" she asked in a low and querulous tone of voice.

"I am Doctor Watson, ma'am," Watson replied politely. "Have you come regarding the ring?"

"Oh yes, sir," the woman replied. She dug the paper out of her voluminous bag. "Your advertisement bought me here." She held it up like a shield.

"Please come in," Watson hastily opened the door for her and assisted her up the stairs. Once safely ensconced in the flat, the old woman blinked her blearily eyes and seated herself stiffly on one chair, nervous and timid. Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen, though when Watson looked out of the corner of his eye, he could see the lanky silhouette lurking in the alcove.

"'Twas a gold ring, sir, dropped around Brixton Road on her way to the main street," the woman spoke tentatively. "It would belong to my girl, Sally. She's only just recently married a strappin' young sailor who works as a steward on one o' them big cruiser boats. He's a good sort, leastways when he's not on land. Oh 'e's right enowt when on his ships, but once 'is feet hit dirt, well, every drink in a glass bottle comes to 'is hand. Lordy knows what 'e'd do if 'e founded out Sally 'ad lost her ring, him being a short tempered kind 'o man the best o' times."

Watson held up the replacement ring. "Is this her ring?"

"Oh yes! Lord be thanked, Sally will be a glad girl tonight. That is 'er ring, sir, right enowt."

"And your name and address would be?"

"My name is Sawyer; I live as 13 Duncan Street in Houndsditch."

Watson saw Holmes make a slight twitch, indicating he was unhappy with the answer. "Brixton Road isn't between Houndsditch and any main street." Watson hazarded tentatively.

The woman's red rimmed eyes looked up keenly. "You asked fer _my_ address, sir. My Sally lives is 13 Mayfield Place, in Peckham."

"I see," Watson nodded.

"My granddaughter's name is Dennis – Tom Dennis is 'er husbands name. A smart clean lad; they speaks so highly o' him on the cruise ships, unless o' course 'e's on shore and he's got a bottle in 'is hand..."

Holmes waved a dismissive, shadowy hand at the corner of Watson's sight.

"Here's your ring, Mrs Sawyer," Watson cut in smoothly, holding the ring out. "It clearly belongs to your granddaughter. I'm glad to see it returned to it's rightful owner."

The old woman rose with expressions of gratitude falling from her wizened mouth, and she slowly shuffled out, still thanking Watson and wishing him blessings.

Holmes reappeared as soon as the door had closed and the steps creaked under the crone's small feet. "She must be an accomplice," he spoke hurriedly, digging in his pockets. "Go back to Montague Street and wait for me; I will see if she can lead me to him."

With that he was out the door and down the stairs. Watson peered through the window, and saw the old woman hobbling down Baker Street, Holmes dogging her from a small way back.

Watson let himself out of the flat and locked the door behind him with his new key, resigning himself to yet again be trapped in Holmes' company for an evening.

...

Watson tried his best to relax on Holmes's not particularly comfortable couch, and flicked his way through Holmes' impressively eclectic collection of books. He'd settled on an original French copy of _La __Vie de Boheme_ but without much focus.

It was nearly midnight when the dilapidated doorway opened once again, admitting a dishevelled Holmes. Watson could tell instantly that his journey had not been a successful one. Amusement and chagrin waged war in his expression, and he dropped into the seat next to Watson with a frustrated scrub of his dark hair.

"I am never going to have Scotland Yard know about this," he declared ruefully. "I will completely lose any credibility as an investigator, and will be summarily cast into the purgatory of bumbling half-wit adulterer chasers. They will never let me live it down."

Watson raised an eyebrow. "That bad, eh?"

"Oh, even worse than that!" Holmes cried theatrically. "The one silver lining is that I can afford to laugh about it, because I will have the prize in the end."

"So," Watson prompted impatiently. "What happened?"

"I don't mind telling a story against my interest," Holmes chuckled, lighting a cigarette. "I followed the old woman down Baker Street, where she limped and hobbled and showed all signs of being footsore. Hence, she hailed a taxi. I took a gamble getting close enough to hear the address, but I needn't have bothered. She yelled out '13 Duncan Street, Houndsditch' loud enough for an entire street to hear," Holmes snorted self deprecatingly, smoke blowing from his nose. "That, I think now, should have been my first indicator something was wrong. But like some credulous idiot I began to get a notion that this was looking genuine. There was not time to crawl into the taxi boot – a trick all low-income investigators should know – so I hailed another taxi and paid extra to get me to Houndsditch first; and was able to keep the other taxi in sight for most of the way."

"And when you got there?" Watson asked, hanging on every word.

"I saunter up Duncan Street casually as the old hag's taxi pulls up to Number 13. The driver gets out, opens the door..." Holmes took a drag.

"And?" Watson prodded impatiently, fascinated.

"And nothing. The blasted old crone was gone," Holmes blew a vexed white puff into the air. "Vanished like smoke." He shot a look to Watson's amazed huff of breath. "The driver was quite as shocked as you, my good fellow, and I suspect it will quite some time before he's paid his fare. We enquired at the house and found it belonged to a paper mill manager named Keswick, with no knowledge of anyone named Sawyer and Dennis." Holmes gave a bark of laughter, mostly at himself.

Watson shook his head in disbelief. "That's quite a feat for an old woman."

"Old woman, ha!" Holmes scoffed. "That was no old woman, Watson. That was a young man; as bold as brass and an incomparable actor besides. He knew he was being followed, and was savvy enough to give me the slip."

"The murderer?" Watson's eyebrows rose.

Holmes gave a disgruntled grimace. "No. Not tall enough, even stooped. But it does prove one thing; this killer is not without friends who are willing to help him."

"Two murderers?" Watson theorised

Holmes shook his head. "There was one man in that condemned room, of that I am sure. The scene indicates the murder was individual and personal; one man planned it, one man executed it. This accomplice was probably helping him after the fact."

"I understand about chasing the accomplice, but that couldn't have taken this long," Watson pointed out. "Where have you been for the rest of the time?"

"I was following up on my enquiries in other areas," Holmes explained. "The Yarders have their American contacts, and I have mine. The plot has thickened, for I have had a response to some of my requests. The whole thing is becoming clear to me. I am just now getting a confirmed name for our suspect."

Watson blinked. "What? You mean you already know who committed the crime?"

"It's becoming clearer every passing moment. I certainly have some confirmations of the motive, which has given me a solid working theory."

"Which is?"

Holmes frowned across the room. "I need to get new strings for my violin," he got up and started rummaging around in the mess.

"_Holmes_," Watson protested in exasperation. Holmes just hummed a classical tune, cheerfully ignoring the Doctor's press for more information. Watson was tempted to push but he knew the contrary and infuriatingly smug man would not reveal anything else. He enjoyed being a mystery as much as he enjoyed solving them and this was a maddeningly interesting affair; no doubt he would play it out for as much entertainment as it was worth.

Watson dug a takeaway menu from his pocket. "Do you want to split an order of pot stickers?"

Holmes looked up. "Usually I deny myself any stimulation or sustenance, to invigorate my faculties to their greatest heights during a case; but tonight, admittedly, I feel like lemon chicken." He sat back down, his violin in hand. "Besides, our opponent is a clever and able man. There is nothing more invigorating than a truly challenging opponent. Get some spring rolls as well."

...

End Chapter Nine


	10. Chapter Ten: Tobias Gregson Shows Us

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Adult Themes & Light Bad Language

Authors Notes: I feel so sorry for Scotland Yard in Sherlock Holmes stories some times. But not today! This was just plain fun to write. I took a lot of the 'script writing' kinds of descriptions that ACD used in the original, because in a modern time most people wouldn't do exposition that way, even though ACD most likely used that tool for dramatic and storytelling effect.

Please, read and review

...

Chapter Ten: Tobias Gregson Shows What He Can Do

...

The next day Watson left early from work with the excuse that he needed to pack to move into Baker Street the next morning, and he had to organise some sort of transport for some of his things in the storage locker, as well as pay up his hotel bill.

He unlocked the door, took one look at his room, turned around, got out of the building with a scathing lecture from the hotel manager about the fire safety rules, and headed straight down to Montague Street.

He banged on the door. "Holmes!"

The door swung in and sideways, as it usually did. "Watson! Good, I was just about to call you. I," he held up a triumphant finger. "Have had a perfectly informative and constructive day in which I have cleared all the little unanswered questions about the case, save one. This shall be done within the next few hours, I can assure you."

"Holmes," Watson repeated through gritted teeth. "Would you mind explaining to me just why my hotel room currently looks like a publisher's warehouse combined with a laboratory's storeroom and an armoury, you infuriating pillock?"

The room in Montague Street was almost clean; you could actually see the floor, the window was now letting in real daylight and the walls were clear. The bulk of the chemical shelves, books and papers were all gone, along with the various weapons and lab equipment. The couch, faded and dusty looked almost lonely, with a suitcase on it. The forensic machinery - the gas chromatographer-mass spectrometer - still remained, stuck on the bare floorboards in a mess of cables.

The room actually looked empty and deserted. Well of course it did, Watson thought resentfully.

"I would prefer to have the majority of my things out of this termite nest," Holmes explained remorselessly. "The troll living downstairs may get impatient, and have this place burned down any day now. As we're moving into Baker Street tomorrow, I didn't see the harm in having my things stored with you for one night."

Watson glared at the infuriating man. "Holmes, I realize social graces are not your forte, but you need to _tell_ me these things! I can barely get to my bed for packing boxes!"

"I was extremely busy," Holmes explained reasonably. "And I didn't want to wait. Some of those things are irreplaceable and I didn't want to see them burnt to ashes."

"There you go again with 'place is going to burn down'," Watson shouldered his way into the apartment. "You've mentioned that a couple of times now. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Mrs Dudley, the landlady?" Holmes pointed downstairs. "She feels she deserves a better lifestyle, and goodness knows what sparked that delusion. She's planning on setting this placed alight as soon as she can do it safely, and maybe not even then."

Watson stared. "You're joking."

Holmes snorted. "Trust me, insurance means this place is far, far more valuable destroyed than still standing. You of course noticed the extra layers of vanish and oil everywhere you go in this building? The chemical cans littering the hallways along with the rubbish? The sheer amount of indulgence that ogre is partaking in? Believe me, she could not afford to binge like that a few weeks ago; but now apparently she has access to a limitless supply. It does not take genius such as mine to see she is stocking up on her accelerants – some of which she can't help but dip into, apparently. With all the preparation that woman's done, this place will go up like a tinder box."

"You are," Watson rolled his eyes. "Impressively paranoid." He sat down on the couch.

"It's only paranoia if I am wrong," Holmes replied superciliously. "And I am never wrong. So, just to be on the safe side, I moved most of my things to your rooms for the night. I am the last lodger standing who hasn't been completely driven mad by her incessant harping and foul habits. I wouldn't put it past her to burn me in my sleep, the blood sucking boozer."

"I can't imagine why she'd want to," Watson commented with saccharine irony as he took a seat on the couch.

Holmes glared at him.

There was a knock on the door. "Holmes? It's Detective Inspector Tobias Gregson!" A voice yelled through the door.

"You notice how he always introduces himself with his title?" Holmes murmured dryly. "It's as if he thinks it will be stolen if he doesn't own to it every single time. Come in, Inspector Gregson."

Open, swing, pivot. Gregson cursed as he shoved the door back into place. "Sorry about that."

Holmes waved him off amusedly. "I will send you the bill. What can I do for you, Inspector?"

The man's face suddenly suffused into almost childlike delight. "I have solved it, Mister Holmes. The whole matter is now perfectly clear and we have the suspect in custody. I'm sorry to say that we won't need any further services from you," the sheer enormity of that falsehood was as clear as glass. "And the best of it is that Lestrade, the twice over fool, is following the completely wrong track. Strangerson has no more to do with this than an unborn infant. By the time he gets to the truth, the murderer will have been tried and convicted." He laughed until he choked at the thought.

For a flash of a second, Holmes face twisted with a perplexed anxiety, which vanished instantly into a schooled expression of diffident interest. "My, my. That is extremely interesting. Pray, do tell us the man's name and the method by which you found him."

"The murderer is Arthur Charpentier, a lieutenant in the British Navy," Gregson named proudly.

Holmes gave a soft, relieved sigh and relaxed back onto the couch. Watson watched the amused gleam in the man's grey eyes with caution. Holmes didn't find normal things funny.

"And how did you find this man?" Holmes asked levelly. "Would you like some tea, by the way?"

"Oh, no thank you; though I'll be stopping by my local bar on the way home," Gregson grinned. "I have had exertions to contend with for the last two days – mental ones, which I'm sure you will appreciate Mr Holmes. You yourself are a brain-worker as well."

"You do me such honour," was Holmes' reply, in which you could hear the ironical amusement dripping to the floor. Watson grimaced. This was going to be _savage_.

Gregson continued, oblivious. "The first step was finding out where the man was staying in London, which is no easy task considering no one knew him here. Most people would have spent days on the phones, or posted flyers or put advertisements in the paper and waited for responses, which could have taken weeks. That is not my way. Did you notice the tailored suit the man was wearing?"

"Underwood & Sons, 129 Camberwell Road," Holmes rattled off languidly.

For a moment Gregson actually looked crestfallen. "I didn't realize you had noticed. Have you yourself made enquiries?"

Holmes shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Well, a trifle should never be ignored, no matter how small," Gregson continued, brightening up. "The suit was brand new, so I asked Underwood whether he had made one of that description and had it delivered anywhere in the last few weeks. He had indeed had one made and delivered to Charpentier's Boarding Establishment in Torquay Terrace, the residence of Drebber whilst he was in London," Gregson grinned triumphantly.

"Smart," Holmes responded, seemingly interested. "Very smart."

"I spoke to Madam Charpentier and her daughter, Alice. They run the boarding house, along with a small staff. The instant – the very instant – I started asking questions about the American guest Mr Drebber, it was clear something fishy was going on. Mrs Charpentier went absolutely white, and Alice Charpentier looked much the same. You could see the young lady had been quite distraught recently – her eyes were red from crying and she fairly shook when she saw me. She burst into tears when she heard Drebber's name.

"I began to smell a rat. Mrs Charpentier confirmed both Drebber and Strangerson had stayed there for the past three weeks. They were entirely memorable, mostly because of Drebber. Strangerson was by all accounts quiet and no trouble; but Drebber, apparently, was not. His conduct was completely inappropriate, and that's putting it mildly. Mrs Charpentier stated the man was, without exception, drunk after twelve o'clock midday every day – falling down drunk. There were several complaints lodged about his behaviour with the female staff and female guests. Nothing criminal; just inappropriate words, behaviours and gestures. Mrs Charpentier kept them on despite this, as they were paying something like triple the amount charged for their rooms and it is the slack season. She was eventually incensed enough to ask them to leave when it became clear Drebber's attentions were focusing on Alice Charpentier, to the point where he accosted her in a hallway while intoxicated, tried to kiss her and drag her into his rooms. Strangerson separated them and went after Drebber about his behaviour. So did Mrs Charpentier; and she added in no uncertain terms that the pair could either leave of their own free will or in police custody. They both left at eight pm for the nine pm train from Euston Station to go to Liverpool on the night he was killed. Mrs Charpentier claimed they had left together, and that was the last she had seen of either."

Gregson shook his head. "As soon as she said it, I knew it was a lie. I could see it in her daughter's face. I pressed them, asked them to repeat the story. The daughter, Alice, finally gave in and admitted they had seen Drebber again. Her mother was _not_ happy about that. Mrs Charpentier started scolding Miss Alice about it, saying she was getting her brother into trouble – a point which I found extremely interesting, you will no doubt realise. The young woman, however, stuck to her statement and confessed that Drebber had come back about an hour later – clearly intoxicated – and had given an excuse about missing the nine pm train.

"This is where it gets really interesting," Gregson leaned forward. "Drebber burst into the Charpentier's private unit and proposed marriage to Alice. Oh yes," Gregson preened over the shocked look on Watson's face, and even Holmes had a raised eyebrow. "The girl's only eighteen, which is just into the legal age. Drebber ranted that no law would stop the marriage and about being able to provide her everything she ever wanted or needed. He grabs her by the arm and tries to drag her out the door. Mrs Charpentier goes at him to try and stop him, screaming at the top of her voice. Now, unbeknownst to Drebber, Mrs Charpentier's son Arthur had come home - after the two Americans had departed at eight - for an evening's furlough with his family. He came home soon after they had left the first time, heard the story from his mother about Drebber and then went up to change out of his uniform. He hears his mother's screams not twenty minutes later, when Drebber returns, and races back down to the main room. He bursts in to see his sister being dragged by the arm by the disgusting sot, so he puts Drebber in a headlock, drags him out the door and pitches him out into the street."

"Good for him," Watson commented decisively.

Holmes rolled his eyes but Gregson just nodded. "Oh yes, apparently the two siblings are very close and he's very protective of her. Charpentier checks that his mother and sister are both alright and then tells them that's he's going to go after Drebber to make sure he doesn't come back; he disappears into the night and does not return until well after midnight. Mrs Charpentier hedged as much as she could, but she eventually admitted that she never heard young Charpentier come back in, so he had no alibi for his whereabouts at the time of the murder. The man had motive and opportunity to kill Drebber."

"And the means?" Holmes asked sharply.

"Ah, now that was a sticking point, I'll admit," Gregson answered promptly and confidently. "We arrested him when he came back to shore after some rescue drill training he had been on for the last two days in a carrier off the coast. Do you know what he had in his bag?" He asked eagerly. "The preserved head of a pit viper! Just the head, painted with preservative. He'd picked it up in some foreign port and had kept it as a souvenir. I checked with our experts; depending on the age of the ghastly thing, Charpentier could have extracted enough venom to kill Drebber with it."

Watson was confused. "But why not just use a gun? He had to have had access to many."

"Guns are traceable," Gregson shrugged. "Hematoxin less so. I suspect he did it to throw suspicion off himself. He was as bold as brass when we came to arrest him. Said straight to my face that he was sure I was there about that drunken degenerate, Drebber. He certainly isn't sorry for anything. Oh, cheer up Mr Holmes," Gregson added, mistaking Holmes expression of sheer disbelief at idiocy for embarrassment. "You were correct, this was a revenge killing. And Charpentier is a tall, fit man, so you were right there too. You can't expect to catch the man every time. As an amateur, you won't have access to the resources that we do at the Yard."

Watson was starting to feel extremely sorry for Gregson. The gleam of vengeance in Holmes eyes practically illuminated the room. Watson had no doubt the consulting detective was going to leave Gregson in little tiny pieces all over the room.

"And how, may I ask," Holmes spoke slowly, as if trying to suppress some internal flood. "Was the poison administered?"

"Oh, I'm having the morgue people re-examine the body," Gregson waved a dismissive hand while Watson turned to stare at him. "I'm certain they will find an injection site somewhere that was missed. No insult to your work, doctor," Gregson added hastily to Watson's covert operations stare. "But you're new to forensic pathology, and it's possible you missed something. It was your first unassisted autopsy, after all."

Watson had stopped feeling sorry for Gregson. In fact, he promised as he fought to clear the red from his vision that when Holmes had finished dismembering the luckless Inspector, he, Watson, was going to hide the body parts.

Watson forced himself to calm down. He could feel Holmes laughing at him silently from the corner of his eye.

"You conclusion are most...interesting, Inspector," Holmes allowed, speaking carefully.

There was a knock at the door.

"It's becoming a busy place today," Holmes remarked sardonically. "Enter."

The door did it's usual Escher movement and admitted Lestrade carrying a case and a cane in one hand, who propped the door up as usual and entered with the stride of a preoccupied man. "Mr Holmes, Doctor, Gregson," he nodded to each in turn. "Doctor, I thought you might be here. I believe this is yours," he held up Watson's cane and offered it.

"Thank you, Inspector," Watson said sincerely, while Holmes obligingly tossed the useless ergonomic one aside.

"Gregson, I heard from dispatch you were coming here as well. There's something I needed to confer with you about, though you both," he told Holmes and Watson. "Are welcome enough to stay, I suppose." He placed the case on the floor.

Gregson shot his rival a triumphant smile. "Lestrade, good to see you! I suppose you have heard of the great progress that was made in your absence?" He asked with just a hint of snideness. "Very shortly we will have Arthur Charpentier dead to rights."

"Yes," Lestrade confirmed in a leaden tone that made Holmes look up with interest. "I have heard he was arrested on the quay this afternoon. Gregson, can I confirm with you – was Charpentier absolutely confirmed to have been aboard his vessel for the last two days?"

Gregson was taken aback. "Yes, we confirmed it. It's a military vessel, Lestrade, and in the middle of the ocean. It would incredibly hard for him to abscond without someone noticing. When he wasn't on duty with four other men, he was bunking with a roommate or at the officer's mess."

"I see," Lestrade replied to this statement slowly. He scrubbed a tired hand across his face. "This is a most unusual business. Most unusual."

"Lestrade," Holmes leaned forward, filled with energy. "You have new information to add?"

Gregson snorted derisively. "What more is there to add? Drebber and Strangerson came into the country, got kicked out of their rooms because of Drebber's behaviour, the two of them separated at Euston, Drebber came back to harass the family and pushed it too far, which lead to Charpentier hunting him down and killing him. Simple."

"Not simple, Gregson" Lestrade retorted. "Not simple at all. After making some enquiries we found that the pair, Drebber and Strangerson had been spotted on Euston Station; the ticket box confirmed they bought two tickets to Liverpool. Since Drebber was found in Brixton I had the idea that Strangerson had been involved in his death, so I sent a request for information and whereabouts on Strangerson to Liverpool and started checking hotels around Euston. It was possible, I thought, for Strangerson to have murdered Drebber and then fled to Liverpool, perhaps to stowaway on the boats there; or maybe he was still hiding in London."

"This is useless!" Gregson blustered. "Strangerson had nothing whatsoever to do with it. Why would he murder his employer in a foreign country when there was ample opportunity to do it at home? We have the murderer. Why is this important?"

"I've just come from Halliday's Hotel in Little George Street near Euston Station," Lestrade replied grimly. "Joseph Strangerson was murdered there at six o'clock this morning."

...

End Chapter Ten


	11. Chapter Eleven: A Light in the Darkness

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Light Bad Language & Adult Themes

Authors Notes: I know, it's been a little while. I started up on two other writing projects at once and it pulled me this way and that, and I've just been so distracted. But, bright side, here is Holmes at his most theatrical best.

Please enjoy and please also review.

...

Chapter Eleven – A Light in the Darkness

...

Gregson rocked back on his heels in shock, while Watson's jaw dropped open. Holmes' face lit up with a fervour of interest.

"Strangerson too," Holmes exclaimed. "The plot has indeed thickened."

"It was already thick enough, Mister Holmes," Lestrade grumbled. "I was the first on the scene; I tracked the man to his hotel room and saw a blood trail creeping from under the door. No one had checked on Strangerson since he arrived there."

"Not poisoned this time?" Watson asked.

"No. Stabbed through the heart. The morgue is still to do the autopsy, but the man had clearly been in a fight. I've been there all day cataloguing the scene," Lestrade sighed wearily.

"You are certain about the identification?" Gregson stammered.

"Absolutely certain, _Inspector_," Lestrade hissed back.

"Leave out no detail, Lestrade," Holmes ordered imperiously. "What was the exact nature of the crime scene?"

"Strangerson was still in his night clothes in the middle of the floor. His clothes were torn and there were defensive wounds on his arms. His luggage, save his toiletries and night clothes was still packed for a trip, the bedding indicated he'd either just risen or had been roused by the murderer. The wound was a single upward thrust that pierced the muscle tissue under the arm and broke the rib bone, slicing the left ventricle. Death was quick, and bloody. There was blood in the sink of the bathroom where the killer must have cleaned himself and on the sheets where he wiped his knife. All very commonplace for a murder scene, save two things."

Lestrade bent to unlock the case and produced an evidence bag. "One, we found this e-mail printout in his suitcase." He handed the nearly blank page to Holmes and Watson leaned in to see. The e-mail was from a 'B. Young' to '', dated four days ago and stated simply _JH is in Europe_.

"The second was on the wall. Can you guess what was written above the man's body?"

Watson felt the hairs on his neck rise, even as Holmes answered. "The word _Rache,_ written in blood."

Lestrade nodded grimly. "Correct. Only this time it was written in the victim's blood."

Holmes sat back, steepling his fingers. "Anything else?"

"I don't know that it helps us much, but the murderer was witnessed leaving Strangerson's room. A paper boy who was doing his rounds near the hotel saw a tall, red headed man in a long coat climbing out of the window using a long ladder they use for window cleaning. He thought that the man was just a maintenance worker doing some early job and never gave it much thought until we started questioning all those in the vicinity," Lestrade reported.

"And there was nothing else?" Holmes demanded. "No other items in the room save the victim's luggage?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary," Lestrade shrugged. "There was a novel he'd been reading and his wallet, still with cash and cards inside, a glass of water and some chipboard box with two pills inside."

"That's it!" Holmes leapt to his feet. "That's it, the last link. We have all the threads that formed this tangle, and may now unravel them. Could I have access to these pills?"

Lestrade drew a paper evidence bag from the case. "I have them here, along with Strangerson's other personal effects. I was going to take them to the station until we can contact his relatives." He poured the contents out, and Holmes snatched up the nondescript box from the pile.

"Ah, here we are. Doctor, would you say there's anything strange about these?" Holmes held the pills up.

Watson took one and turned it over in his hands. "There's no identity mark." He turned to the Inspectors. "All drugs have a company stamp or other identifying mark somewhere. It's to help stop counterfeiting and to distinguish them from other, similar looking medicines."

"Fascinating, but I still don't see the importance of this," Lestrade stated, looking like he was being made fun of.

"Just so," Holmes nodded. "These look home made." He took a fitted phial from the GC-MS machine at his feet, and a dug out a clean scalpel. He carefully sliced the top off one capsule, took of sample of the powder therein, and loaded up the machine. "There. We should have a result within about two minutes or so. Watson," Holmes dragged up the battered laptop. "I'm assuming you know basic chemistry. Keep an eye on the readouts, tell me what comes up."

"Holmes, can you please explain this?" Lestrade protested impatiently. "So the man took medicine. More than half the country is medicated. Or he was an addict, which is just as common."

"Patience, my friend, patience," Holmes admonished. "You will see soon enough."

They waited until Watson, reading off the screen, looked up. "It's finished, but Holmes this can't be right. It says here it's sucrose."

Holmes turned on him in disbelief. "Sugar?"

"Sugar and nothing but," Watson turned the screen for Holmes to see the analysis.

Disappointment and chagrin flushed Holmes face. "That can't be right! This is the only answer that fits all the facts, that explains the whole mess. The pills I expected at Drebber's were found, but they are inert?" Holmes paced the room agitatedly. "Can it be possible that my entire chain of logic was false? That's impossible. It can't be coincidence."

Gregson had regained some of his good humour in the face of Holmes' sudden failure. "We can't know everything, Holmes." He stopped grinning when he was hit with the full force of Watson's glare.

Watson found himself empathizing with Holmes confusion and chagrin. It was never nice to have the whole world pulled out from under you, he knew. "Holmes, don't worry about it," he turned the other, untested pill in his hands. "Maybe what you're looking for just isn't there to find."

Holmes shot him a look, but then his whole countenance changed when he spied Watson's hands holding the other pill. His whole body convulsed as if struck by lightning. "Ah, I have it!" He took the other pill and repeated the same process as with the last, throwing himself down on the couch when finished.

"I must have more faith," he declared, running hands through his hair. "Of course one should always remember that when a fact runs contrary to the logic, it is not the logic but the interpretation of the fact that is the key issue." Was all he said as they waited.

Watson felt a thrill of excitement as the results flashed up. "Congratulations, we have a hemotoxin."

Holmes gave a derisive laugh. "One deadly poison and one completely harmless. But I should have known that before I opened the box at all."

Watson was confused by the statement. "Excuse me?"

Lestrade was staring. "Holmes, what does this mean?"

Holmes shook his head, amused. "All this is strange to you all because you failed to realize the most important aspect of the crime. Because it escaped your attention, you focused on the wrong areas and ended up treading the wrong paths. But the things that perplex you about this affair have only served to make it all the more clear to me."

"Has it ever occurred to you that it is the commonplace murders which are the hardest to solve?" Holmes sat back with a contemplative air. "The ones where there is nothing remarkable or noteworthy, nothing which draws the eye and fires the imagination? They are much more likely to pass out of the annuls of history, unfathomable. This would have been much harder to solve if Drebber had been left beaten or shot on the street somewhere; but no, he was lured and killed, and that uniqueness has made the problem easy to solve. All the effort to obscure the facts has in fact made them transparent, murderer, motive and all."

"You know who it is?" Lestrade cut in, thunderstruck. "Damn it man, who?"

Holmes' expression shuttered, and to Watson's surprise he replied. "I'd rather not say."

Sheer, pole axed, disbelieving silence followed for a moment.

Then Gregson held up a heavy hand. "Now wait just a minute, Mr Sherlock Holmes. We are willing to acknowledge that you are a very smart man and that you have some clever methods. But we need more than a lecture or a theory. We need to find this man. If we were both wrong and both Charpentier and Strangerson were not involved, then who did kill these men? You throw out hints here and there like breadcrumbs but that still does not give us anything we can use!" Gregson had gone red in the face.

Lestrade added, far more calmly. "Inspector Gregson is correct, sir. Yes, we have both failed; but Mr Holmes if you know something that can assist us, we have to know it now. You can't keep that kind of information from the force."

Watson looked over at Holmes and asked simply. "Let's find the man before he kills again."

Holmes, pressured from all sides, replied. "There won't be any more murders; that I am sure of. And yes, I do know the assassin's name but it is of little use compared with an ability to capture him. I have made arrangements which may see him in custody, but they will require careful handling. This man is shrewd, he is desperate, he has the assistance of at least one other just as intelligent and perhaps more accomplices as well. Right now we may find him if he believes himself to be safe; but he has proven himself a very able criminal. If he has an inkling that we are close, he will vanish into this city; and gentlemen, with no intent to hurt, I must say that neither you nor the entire force of Scotland Yard are a match for him. If you want him caught, you must let me try my way. I accept responsibility for whatever this man might do afterwards; but I cannot let him escape and your grasp will be fumble fingered. The instant I can advise you of the details without endangering my arrangements, I will do so. Until then, I will not answer your questions."

Gregson and Lestrade both looked extremely affronted by this.

"Now wait a minute you..." Gregson started, but a knock interrupted him.

Wiggins came in without permission, and gave Holmes a wave. "The taxi you ordered is here, guv," he reported.

Holmes grinned. "Very good. Can you ask the driver to come in? I have some equipment that needs to be moved."

Wiggins hurried off while the Inspectors rounded on Holmes.

"What is this?" Gregson demanded.

Holmes made a show of disconnecting the GC-MS from power before answering. "Surely you've heard. I am moving apartments to Baker Street, and I wouldn't want to trust this kind of equipment to a moving company."

Puzzled and suspicious, Watson also rose, watching Holmes closely. The man was up to something.

Through the open door came the driver – a tall, tanned man with a face flushed with cold, a long coat and a shapeless hat pulled half over his eyes. "What can I do for you, sir?" He asked politely.

"Ah, just the man. Can you help me lift this? It's a little heavy," Holmes waved the man over.

The driver took the order a little sullenly, but bent down to lift one end. In an instant, Holmes hands were a blur, and a tie was around the man's wrist and tightened in a blink.

"Gentlemen," Holmes flourished. "I give you Mr Jefferson Hope, murderer of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Strangerson."

Watson was so shocked that for a moment he froze. Then Hope, the driver, gave a roar and batted Holmes aside with his cuffed fists before leaping for the window. Rotting wood and glass splintered as the man's body slalomed into it but Watson was already there, kicking the back of one knee and hauling back the man with both arms.

Hope managed to knock him off balance, but Gregson and Lestrade joined the fray. Hope was a big man and fought with wild savagery, biting and clawing and hammering with his hands and feet. The Inspectors had him by either arm but the man was still able to drag them around, yanking them this way and that. Holmes leapt in from behind, and secured the half crazed man in a headlock, which still barely slowed him down.

Looking down the barrel of Watson's gun froze him solid. Hope, breathing harshly, looked past the gun to the look in Watson's eyes.

"I've pulled the trigger on better men than you," Watson warned coldly.

Hope took a breath, and relaxed, letting himself be wrestled to the floor.

Holmes, dishevelled but triumphant, shot his audience a wide smile. "Now, gentlemen, I can answer your questions." He gave Watson a wink. "Seeing as how my arrangements have all gone ahead _beautifully_."

...

End Chapter Eleven


	12. Chapter Twelve: The Country of the Saint

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, off-scene, non-graphic mentions of illegal acts

Authors Notes: I'm sorry, I had to do it! Yes, Isis the Sphinx, we have Hope's back story in all it's Holmesless and Watsonless glory; if you can call it that. But I bow to the creator and I respect my source material, especially when I'm trying to pay homage to it, so in the narrative break stays. In my defence, I did boil it down from the nearly half-book five-chapter literary detour into a slightly more palatable three thousand word sketch, leaving nothing but the bare bones. Never fear, there are some prime Holmes & Watson cuts in the next chapters. Read this anyway; I added a hopefully interesting twist!

Please, read & review – and enjoy!

...

Chapter Twelve – The Country of the Saints

...

_John Ferrier knew that life could take you strange places, stranger than ever could be imagined. It had taken him as far as two wars, fought for his country diligently but snuffing ties as quickly as a bullet in most cases. By the time he returned to the homeland he was an orphan in every sense and decided he preferred it that way. He worked solitary jobs in the wildernesses of his land; rangers, trackers, remote farmhands, trappers, anywhere and everywhere he could work in his solitude. He roamed all over the country, almost always on his own two feet._

_He set out on one of his long sojourns across the Mojave from Hurricane when misfortune struck. His supplies were lost to him when, after avoiding a rattlesnake at one of the high boulders, his pack was knocked into a gap between two slabs and was lost to a place he could not reach or climb to. With no other recourse, John Ferrier attempted to head back the way he had come; but with seven days between him and any civilisation he already knew his chances were not good. He still knew it two days later, so parched he could barely swallow. He accepted the reality of it stoically though. It was not as if he'd ever attached any importance to his life._

_That's when he found her. Wandering the barren land like a sprite, kicking stones and poking everything curiously, dressed in a vividly bright dress and showing such an irrepressible sparkle that for a moment John Ferrier was sure she was merely some sort of mirage._

_But as he approached he realised she was real enough – real and sunburnt and lost and glad to see him. It had been so many years since that had happened._

_She chattered brightly to him. She said she had woken on the strange beach that had these little plants but no water, and she couldn't find mama or papa anywhere, so she had gone to look for them. Aside from a shadowy bruise on her temple, she was perfectly healthy._

_It was easy enough to backtrack the child's footsteps. That's when he found the car – bright cherry red, just like the girl's dress. It had come off the road, flipped and come to rest some distance from the grey asphalt ribbon cutting the desert in two. John Ferrier asked her to sit behind the dune where she couldn't see and checked the car, but even before he got close he sensed it was far too late. The girl had been lucky; she had been thrown from the car through one window and had walked away with scarcely a scratch._

_John Ferrier explained this to the girl tentatively and timidly, but to his relief she didn't seem to really understand what had happened. She just accepted that her parents were 'elsewhere', and she would see them again someday._

_That day would be all too soon John Ferrier realized a night and day later, as he and the little one followed the road slowly. There had been no water in the car, and the girl was diabetic. John Ferrier hadn't thought to ask and the child had not thought to tell; it was too late to backtrack to the car for medicines – with no water they would be dead before they could get there. John Ferrier did what he could with cacti, but there were no springs and no creeks in this area. The road surely would lead somewhere, but John Ferrier hadn't been in good shape even before he found the girl, and she was visibly wilting like a bright red flower under the sun and her sickness. John Ferrier, the determinedly solitary man, did all but pluck the sun from the sky to keep the little girl happy, and laughing, and curious. Deep in his bones he knew this was important. _

_Eventually there was nothing else to do but curl in the pitiful shade offered by a low hill by the road. The girl was speech slurred and listless and John Ferrier's legs would not take him a step further. The child began reciting a prayer she'd been taught to say before she went to sleep, explaining how tired she was and she needed to sleep. John Ferrier had never felt more helpless, more enraged by fate than he did when she said that. He'd have carved his heart from his chest in that moment, if it would have sustained her and kept her alive._

_The next thing he was aware of was cool, delicious water pouring down his throat. He awoke to a train of caravans and motor homes in one long stream along the road, holding a variety of people of all descriptions. They nursed and cared for the child while John Ferrier was revived and taken to meet four men – Brigham Young, Josiah Drebber, Paul Strangerson and Nathanial Keller._

_Elders, they explained. They explained about the church, about how they were leaving Salt Lake City for a self-sustained commune life where they could practice their faith in God without being persecuted by outside forces. They explained how John Ferrier and the girl had been found. They asked John Ferrier about his life, about the child in his care._

_The only thing every part of John Ferrier's body and soul would allow him to say was; she's mine._

_They stayed with the Church; the Church of the Shining Glory. The girl, Lucy, recovered as children do from the loss of her family and was irrevocably attached to John Ferrier now; she would not hear of it any other way, despite the families that offered to adopt her._

_John Ferrier stayed – partly out of gratitude but mostly because he was deathly afraid the moment he look Lucy into civilisation, social workers or some distant relative would snatch her from his grasp. Something had happened in those days, keeping that little, precious child alive. John Ferrier had a reason to live, and it was her._

_He made himself absolutely useful. As a Jack of all trades, he could handle carpentry, electrics and plumbing. He could fish, he could hunt, he could farm and forage; something not many in the Church, city dwellers to a person, had any experience in. His diligent efforts in building and assembling the life of the commune stood him in such good stead that he was given his own partition of land, second in size only to the four Elders. _

_John Ferrier worked it – he worked it day and night to make a good home for his daughter, and quickly became the most wealthy landowner in the community. He raised cattle and horses, he had some business and trading sense that the others did not apply as forcefully as he did, though Young himself – the leader of the Church - was a charismatic and able administrator._

_One day John Ferrier had woken up, and realized almost twenty years had passed him by. He knew this because Lucy Ferrier had blossomed into an excellent and lovely young woman; somehow without him ever noticing it. _

_He noticed it now because Jefferson Hope was coming around, awkwardly asking if he could date the scarlet beauty that was Lucy. Jefferson Hope was one of a group of farmhands that had been hired from outside the community – an act which was frowned upon by some, but the Church had gained great wealth from their efforts, converts appeared daily and their lands were expanding. Also, more and more fervour was being expected in the Church, to the point where entire households were completely focused on their path to Heaven and not on the everyday, practical affairs. Outside help was required. _

_Now, John Ferrier liked Jefferson Hope. He had always liked the fit, rustic, clever young man with such a talent for quick thinking and grace under fire; to the point where he'd been trusted as the senior handler and manager of all the livestock on the farm. John Ferrier had liked him from the day he'd met him, when he'd saved Lucy from being trampled stampede. And Lucy, spirited, witty and kind hearted Lucy, clearly thought a great deal of him too. Jefferson Hope was, for better or worse, a part of the family fold, privy to it's intimate ways and secrets before too long._

_But that's when things got sticky. The multiple wives policy of the Church had always been a bone of contention between John Ferrier and the Church, as well as his decision to home school Lucy. They attended Church and recognized the holy days sincerely enough, but naysayers whispered that they were not true believers, that they were blasphemous chasers of the wealth and luxury that the Church had afforded them. It was said with an edge of resentment and envy at John Ferrier's obvious success despite the rejection on a key tenant in the Church._

_John Ferrier, whatever his opinions of this new, different interpretation of mainstream Mormon beliefs, knew that he could not take a wife, or wives. He simply could not accept that as a path to God, though he never put voice to the belief. And he had been determined that Lucy would not be shaped by those preachings either, which caused no end of protests when little Lucy Ferrier was excused from religious studies. At the time the Elders had needed John Ferrier and his skills, so they granted the Ferrier family a small amount of leeway._

_When John Ferrier realized that his daughter was in love, he also knew that there would be huge obstacles to overcome. The Church had been going rotten for the last few years. People gave up day-to-day maintenance of farms to pray and fast and give themselves to God, which caused shortages in the community. New, fervent converts, sons of the Elders, had begun taking over the religious teaching under the benediction of the Elders, and came down hard on what they perceived at dissidence. What was once a place of faith and religious debate became a rigid and unyielding law, and woe betides any man who let even the slightest protest out into the air. Proximity to heaven was measured by loyalty to the Church and it's teachings. Neighbours turned on neighbours, people were reported like the Salem witch trials to the High Council. People climbed the ranks of the temple over the backs and downfalls of others. People threw themselves upon the Elders, who were seen as almost living saints, who spoke of prophecies and paradises, passing collection plates and getting richer, and richer, and richer. People gave their possessions, their land, everything into the hands of the Elders._

_Recently it had gotten much worse, if that were possible. The fanatical teachers were a source of terror wherever they went, taking people into custody and handling the cruellest punishments. The dissident among the community began to disappear, leaving their lands, families and wives all in the hands of the Elders. No one spoke out. No one was brave enough to try._

_And there were not enough women for the men; even though the highest ranking in the Church all had a veritable harem. Polygamy was a useless doctrine if there weren't enough women to supply the demand. That's when the new women began showing up – mostly young teenagers, who were frightened and grief stricken, who were punished – usually in private chambers by the Elders or their heirs themselves – for trying to escape the town. _

_No one talked about it. No one talked at all, unless it was Church sanctioned._

_But Jefferson Hope and Lucy were already in love and it was far too late to turn that tide. Lucy was utterly set on marrying the young outsider who had won her heart, in youth's scornful defiance of any authority if need be._

_John Ferrier knew he was in trouble when the Elders came to him, claiming it was time that Lucy Ferrier was married. They did promise the young flower would not be tied to old men, but she must choose between the sons of Drebber and Strangerson, both of whom had petitioned a claim. They had added, darkly, they had heard rumours of her seen with an outsider whose close acquaintance was strictly forbidden. They were adamant she marry within thirty days. The Elders reminded John Ferrier of how the Church had helped him, all they had provided. John Ferrier must demonstrate he is of the true faith and the underlying threat was abundantly clear. Many had already vanished._

_John Ferrier and Lucy sat silently together in the house after they had gone. Through one silent look, they knew they had to escape this place. But Jefferson had gone on the cattle drive to Salt Lake City's areas, and was out of reach. If he came back after they escaped, the church would swallow him up into it's filthy underbelly. _

_John Ferrier went to great lengths to track down the last remaining outsider farmhand not driven out by the bigoted isolationist doctrines of the Elders, and sent him to follow the cattle drive at all speed, and get a message to Jefferson Hope. All they could do was wait._

_They tried to make plans to escape, but the community streets were suddenly paved with dangers. Guards and lookouts hovered around the property, taking note of everything that was done. Once friendly neighbours were stuck with terror silence or preaching loyalty to the church. Communication with the police force was unwise – the Elders were rich and the police presences in towns nearby were firmly under their command. Suddenly everything that was once shared by all was owned by a few. All the channels of communication dried up and vanished or were under the thumb of the Elders. All possibility of help was beyond reach. The Church was not a community, it was a prison. No one had realized it was happening. No one had noticed how everything had gradually moved towards the near omnipotent level of power the Elders now had. The trap had closed around them; it had snapped shut years ago. And no one even noticed._

_When John Ferrier wasn't playing the role of respectable Church member for the eyes now tracking their every move, he was consoling Lucy who, while strong willed and courageous as they came, was deeply upset by the thought of being auctioned off like a breeding heifer._

_It didn't help that the Elder's sons, Enoch Drebber and Joseph Strangerson, each ten years older than their prospective bride, had shown up to bargain prices with John Ferrier; completely ignoring Lucy whose regard they should, in theory, have been trying to win. They were raised in households where the women were not expected or allowed to have thoughts or opinions._

_After a long, heated debate that raged back and forth between the egotistic young swine about who had more esteem, who had more wealth, who could control their wives better, who had higher standing in the council, John Ferrier lost his temper and gave them two choices of exit; the door or the window. The two men were incensed and insulted at what they thought was the unfathomable reaction to a great honour._

_Time was running out and resentment and suspicions began to fall on the Ferrier's after that. They were told they were not even allowed to leave their home until the bride had chosen a groom._

_Then one night, in a violent brawl of fists in the dark with the guards, Jefferson Hope returned. There was no time to prepare. The three fled into the mountains with nothing but the clothes on their back and whatever came to hand on the way out the door. They were ill-prepared and desperate._

_They barely made it as far as the mountains when they were caught. Jefferson Hope had returned from hunting food to the cavern where they had set up camp to find, to his great horror, John Ferrier dying and Lucy gone; John Ferrier gasped out the details – Drebber and Strangerson had been the culprits, as he breathed his last._

_Jefferson Hope swore oaths to John Ferrier as he died that the men responsible for this would pay dearly, and left him in an unmarked grave in the mountains. _

_He followed the tracks back to the Church lands, but the pursuers had sparked a landslide across one passage, forcing Jefferson Hope to make a lengthy trip around. By the time he made it back, it was too late._

_Watching her father murdered almost in front of her and then taken by the vile brute Drebber as a wife broke Lucy Ferrier's spirit, especially after she was told Jefferson Hope had also been hunted down and killed. She gave up on tortured mortal life, and stopped taking her insulin. It hadn't taken long for her to slip into a coma and die. _

_Jefferson Hope, in a rage, broke into the mourning chamber, where Drebber's other, vapid, listless wives all sat in vigil over Lucy's body. He broke down at the sight of his beloved, still and sunken in death. He raged that his Lucy wasn't Drebber's chattel in life or death. He tore the ring from her finger just as the police charged in. Strangerson had called them in with false allegations of assault and kidnapping, and the death of John Ferrier who was exhumed in the mountains._

_He was tried and convicted. He didn't fight it. What was the point? Even if he'd had the will to fight it left in his broken soul, the Church could line up the whole community as witnesses and pull them all like strings on puppets. There was nothing to strive for, and nothing to gain. His beloved was gone, his father in all but blood was gone._

_He had failed. He had nothing left. Nothing left, except a promise to a dying man._

...

End Chapter Twelve


	13. Chapter Thirteen: The Avenging Angel

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, light bad language

Authors Note: The boys are back in town! And while this chapter ties up the majority of the plot and is mostly exposition, I still hope you enjoy it. The next chapter will be a complete Holmes & Watson opus, and unfortunately, the final one.

Please, read & review.

...

Chapter Thirteen: The Avenging Angel

...

The trip to the interrogation rooms of the police station were conducted in silence, although the deep note of satisfaction boomed out from Holmes' position, Watson noted amusedly. The man had enjoyed both the stringing along of his allies with that little sealed-lips confidential act as much as he had enjoyed catching his prey.

Once there, while the prisoner was processed, Lestrade turned to Holmes and Watson. "I suppose you both have earned the right to be there at the interrogation, but please let us do the questioning," he looked pointedly at Holmes. "This is still a police investigation and Mister Holmes was acting as our consulting agent, which makes this nice and legal if everyone plays by the rule book."

"Whatever you say, Lestrade," Holmes agreed amicably, while Watson rolled his eyes. It was going to take quite a lot to remove the smug self-satisfaction from hiscountenance if Watson was any judge.

Once everyone was lined up in the small interrogation room, the prisoner was brought in and chained to the table in silence. He looked tired and old under the harsh lighting glinting off the two-way mirror, his face tranquil and undisturbed.

Lestrade turned on a recorder and stated the date and time before beginning. "Inspector Lestrade and Inspector Gregson, along with police consultant Sherlock Holmes and medical examiner Dr John Watson, interviewing Mr Jefferson Hope of Salt Lake City, Utah, US, regarding the deaths of Enoch Drebber and Joseph Strangerson. Now sir," Lestrade turned to Hope professionally. "I am obliged to warn you that anything you say will be recorded and may be used against you. You are also allowed to contact your Consulate for legal aid, or have another lawyer present."

Hope sat calmly. "I have much to say, and I don't need legal advice. I want to make a statement to you," he gave a deprecating half grin as he looked at Holmes, clearly admiring. "You sir, should be at the head of the British Police."

"You insult me," Holmes returned easily.

"Ha! The way you tracked me was a caution," Hope seemed uncaring about the turn of events. "I want to make a full confession."

Gregson raised an eyebrow. "You don't want to save it for your trial?"

Hope's snort of dismissal was genuine as he looked at Watson. "You're a doctor, yes?"

Watson nodded silently.

Hope, one handed, undid his shirt partway. "Feel here," he pointed to his chest.

Watson placed his palm there, and felt it. His eyes darted left and right, taking in the other symptoms. "You have dilated cardiomyopathy," Watson diagnosed. He turned to the others in the room who were watching him in surprise. "A degenerative heart disease caused by ventricle pump failure," he explained. "Judging by the poor circulation blue and clubbing on his fingers, the bloody face and the palpitations I just felt, his case is extremely severe. You're on medication?" He asked the man.

"Yes," Hopes confirmed. "But the doctor I spoke to last week told me not to make any long term plans. I won't live to see trial, Inspectors."

Lestrade's eyes slid to Watson. "Doctor?"

"Without immediate treatment – a heart transplant – I wouldn't lay odds on him lasting a month," Watson confirmed, not taking his eyes off Hope. "In fact, I'm surprised he's still moving now, after all the exertions he's been through in the last few days. You should be in a hospital, sir." He stated, his healer's instincts bypassing everything else. Whatever horror he had once felt crumbled in the fire of compassion, stoked by years in a dark and dirty war. At times his conviction to see no harm done to those under his care was the only thing he had back then.

Hope just shrugged. "A transplant won't go to an orphaned, childless convicted felon, doc. And even if it did, why would I want to prolong my stay in this agonising place? My work is done. I reckon I'm alive because the record needs to be set straight, and I'm the only one left who can do that."

Holmes steepled his fingers. "I'm aware that the two men you killed conspired to have you wrongly convicted of murder," he stated while the two Inspectors started in surprise. "But I don't know why you would have crossed paths with them in the first place, as you were not listed in the church records as a member."

Watson glanced back and forth between Holmes and Hope, astonished and impressed.

"You are a very clever man, Mr Holmes," Hope laughed heartily. "It started...roughly forty years ago with a man named John Ferrier wandering the desert..." The whole story fell out of the man – brief and factual, but the passion underlying it was hammered into every word. When the man had finished, he asked for a drink of water before continuing.

"When I got out of prison, my..." Hope's lips twisted. "Rage at the men who had stolen everything from me, who had killed my loved ones, was fresh and sharp as it was when I stood over Lucy's body. Fifteen years inside hadn't removed one iota of my need to see justice done."

Holmes broke in. "But the Church had been disbanded," Holmes added for the others enquiring looks. "Soon after Mr Hope's conviction, allegations of child abuse, sexual assault, kidnapping and tax evasion were levelled against the church. Several stolen brides followed Miss Ferrier's example and committed suicide; to the point where even the corrupt police force couldn't bury it. State and Federal authorities investigated, and uncovered the nest of serpents under this Garden of Eden. The Elders and their henchmen were turned into other people's brides in various penitentiaries, though it was no position of honour," Holmes grinned sardonically.

"And they say there's no such thing as karma," Watson commented, giving a dark smile.

"Yes indeed," Hope chuckled. "Drebber and Strangerson escaped the culling, though, mostly by turning evidence in on the church, even their own fathers. When the ship sinks, the rats appear; though their nature was clear enough from the start. They escaped – Drebber was still quite wealthy from taking John's land and possessions, but Strangerson lost his fortune. They had started another church by the time I was free to pursue them.

"I hunted those men down, gentlemen. It was no moment of terror or passion when I saw them by chance on the street. My whole being was bent on their deaths. When I dogged them through the States, I made sure they knew I was there. I sent bullets through their windows, cut brake lines – anything to make them understand even a fraction of the terror and pain we went through. Then I followed them through Europe on their hypocritical little religious tour," Hope stated firmly. "I killed them, but it was as much by Providence as by my own hands."

"Because you gave them a choice," Holmes said shrewdly. "One pill was poison, one was harmless. You chose one and Drebber chose another; the perfect act of revenge, because even a higher power would have judged him guilty. At least, that was your reasoning behind it."

Watson's mouth was open.

"It was in the psychology of the scene, Watson," Holmes turned to him. "You see, the killer lured Drebber into an empty room, but not to hide his crime because he left the light on. It was to give him opportunity to explain himself to his victim. The reason for the crime was literally written on the walls - revenge. He paced up and down the room, remember, in front of Drebber, working himself into a frenzy which caused the bloody nose; listing Drebber's crimes no doubt, and then giving Drebber the poison, which Drebber took voluntarily."

Holmes gave a faint smile of perfect intellectual satisfaction. "That's what was missing at the scene. Drebber wasn't forced_. _He wasn't restrained or tied. He wasn't injected or made to inhale. He wasn't overpowered to the ground and made to swallow the poison. He took the pill upright and on his feet and fell after he was poisoned, your own autopsy confirmed that. There is but one logical question which follows such a fact. What kind of man willing takes poison? Well, the obvious answer is a man who doesn't know it is a poison. But in that case there would have been no need to lure the victim anywhere. The assassin could have gotten close enough and slipped it into any meal or drink Drebber had. The next logical solution is a guilty conscience, something which made the heavy drinking an intriguing fact; but Drebber's own behaviour both in America and here was the actions of a man who felt no guilt and no shame, a man nothing more or less that a collection of gluttonous appetites.

"There is only one logical solution left after we have eliminated these possibilities; that Drebber believed that he had a reasonable expectation of survival. His killer gave him reason to believe that he could walk away. The only way he could do that was to demonstrate that his revenge was so justified that he would risk death himself, and Drebber's escape, to prove it so. Drebber took the pill voluntarily with no physical interference on his body whatsoever because there was a one in two chance he would come to no harm. Like I said before," Holmes preened under Watson's look of admiration. "This would have been much harder to solve had Drebber been killed on the street like any other sordid murder."

"You have it right," Hope nodded. "I took a job as a cab driver to earn some money while I tracked the bastards' movements. I saw Drebber chased out of the boarding house and picked him up, neat as you please. He never even realized where he was going until we were in that old house. He sobered up mighty quick, though," Hope sneered with grim humour. "I told him all the things he done, all the atrocities. He begged me. He _begged_ me to spare him," Hope's huge hands tightened on the table to a stark whiteness. "All I could think was, had Lucy begged him? Had she pleaded with him to spare her father's life? She would have. Lucy loved John so much; she would have done that for him. Drebber is a lying bastard, and probably promised her that John would be safe and then had him killed anyway once she was in his grasp. He's the sort. Had Lucy begged him to spare _me_ and he told her I was dead, because if she was broken then she would be docile? Had she begged when he..." Hope broke off, choking in anger, gasping for air.

Watson got around the desk and pressed one hand to the big man's shoulder, and another to his chest. "Jefferson, calm down. Take a deep breath with me," Watson instructed, keeping his voice level and calm. Holmes reached for the water again. "Gregson," Watson grabbed a sheet of notepaper and dug a pen out of his pocket. "Get someone to go to the veteran hospital pharmacy and get these, would you? I'm on their lists as a prescribing physician." He scribbled a list of drugs and handed it to the Inspector. He turned back to his patient. "That's it, deep breaths. You're doing just fine. Are you sure you can continue?" Watson asked as Gregson flagged a constable outside the door.

"Might as well," Hope gasped. "I may not be here tomorrow." He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. "There's not much else to tell. I offered Drebber the choice, and he was desperate enough to take it. And fate or God or whatever you want to call it struck him down. At best it was justice done; at worst, I put an animal down." He took a long drink of water.

"Then I tracked Strangerson down. It wasn't hard. I knew where they were going because Drebber asked for Euston. I was going to offer him the same thing, but Joseph Strangerson always was a violent man when backed into a corner. I'll wager anything you care to name that he pulled the trigger on John. We fought, and he got his hands around my neck. I thought he might actually strangle me, but the thought of him walking away scot free from what he'd done gave me enough power to lift a mountain. I grabbed my knife - I carry it for protection - and stabbed him under the arm. A little trick I learned in prison, thanks to old Joe." He chuckled at the irony. "Well, that's all she wrote, gentlemen. I'll go to my grave peacefully enough now. I've kept my promise to John and," his face suffused with an almost angelic wistfulness. "Maybe if there really is a God, I will get to see Lucy again."

The room was silent as the incredible story drew to a close. Holmes held up a finger. "There is but one more point I need clarified, Mr Hope. Who was your accomplice who answered the ad and collected the ring?"

"Hmm," Hope grinned, and gave a saucy wink. "I don't think I'll tell you. He didn't do anything illegal. But I will say that wretched, fanatical church that was a shiner in any God's eye destroyed a lot of lives, Mr Holmes. Families. You have no idea how far the rot spread. Let's just say there might be a queue at a cemetery to dance on two unloved and unmourned graves sometime soon."

...

End Chapter Thirteen


	14. Chapter Fourteen: A Study in Scarlet

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes, Doctor John Watson and all associated characters belong to the late, great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his estate, various studios and other companies. This pastiche is completely non-profit, and only for enjoyment and entertainment.

Warnings: Dark & Adult Themes, light bad language

Authors Notes: And that's all she wrote, folks. Wow, I had so much fun with this; and everything flowed out totally smoothly. It's always a pleasure to write something you enjoy re-reading again and again, even if it is a little narcissistic. While this chapter might not be completely true to the original plot, I just couldn't resist ending on a sweet note of bromance between the boys. I hope you enjoyed this story at least half as much as I did, and hopefully much more. Thanks and love go out to all my reviewers, you folk are the best!

Please read, delight, review.

...

Chapter Fourteen: Conclusion – A Study in Scarlet

...

Holmes and Watson exited the police station, and sat on a bench just outside for a contemplative cigarette.

"What a sordid affair," Watson summarised.

Holmes gave a disappointed snort. "Sordid and commonplace and _dull_. There were a few points of interest from an investigative perspective, I suppose."

"Dull? Fanatical cults, mad priests, survival against the odds, families, conspiracies, betrayal, international revenges and true love? That's not dull, Holmes. I could write a book about this, and no one would ever believe it was true," Watson retorted.

"Ha!" Holmes scorned. "Of all the emotions on earth, the one that has caused the most pain and suffering and death is the true selfishness of true love. John and Lucy Ferrier could have escaped on the first day, if John had been willing to let Lucy be taken by child services They could have escaped before the trap was shut if they had simply left when they had earned enough; you can't tell me there was anything to keep them there. They could have ridden out for Salt Lake City themselves to meet Hope, they could have agreed to the wedding and asked for it to be in winter to give themselves more time, they could have called the FBI with a tip about fanatical churches stockpiling guns – which would have got their attention, believe me - they could have reported about disappearances and stolen teenage girls when they saw it happening – good grief, they could have started a fire, or sold their lands away and left, or stampeded a herd of cattle through the town and made their escape in the confusion. What did they do?" Holmes stubbed a cigarette. "They waited and they hoped," Holmes' voice was disdainful.

"They were scared and desperate," Watson defended.

"Yes, and hasn't it occurred to you that that was the power the Elders held over that community? They couldn't have stopped anything if the people had risen against them. The Ferrier's and Hope both just followed the herd. They accepted that the Elders were all-powerful instead of thinking about what they actually _were_. Just another pack of greedy, selfish, deceptive men using God as an excuse to fund their lifestyle and appetites – like a thousand other charismatic cult leaders before them. If they had seen that, if they had stopped thinking with the mob, then they could have solved the problem."

"Sometimes you have to think like everyone else, Holmes," Watson pointed out. "Most people don't have the kind of genius brain that can spot and solve trouble before it even starts. All they have for protection is the herd; they have to follow along. It may not be clever, but it's _safe_. That's all people really want most of the time - to be safe, to be protected - and the church gave them that. So they stayed."

"Safe? Where, exactly, did their conventional thinking get them?" Holmes scorned. "A modern day re-telling of Romeo and Juliet complete with same culpable stupidity that comes when you think good intentions allow for some sort of advantage when it comes to facing problems, as if moral rightness has anything to do with triumph. Instead of getting what they wanted everyone lost and everyone is dead in the end." Holmes flicked a hand. "How futile."

Watson said nothing.

"No doubt," Holmes observed sardonically. "Your romantic nature drives you to disagree with my unsentimental assessment."

"Not at all," Watson replied. "You are correct in every sense."

"But?" Holmes led on facetiously.

"I think in an odd way your big brain has managed to completely miss the point," Watson finished slowly.

"There's a _point_ to all this?" Holmes was dubious.

Watson looked out over the street. "Four months ago my team and I were bunkered in some rat hole in an abandoned town in the middle of God forsaken Afghanistan. We'd just finished a mission, which was finding and extracting prisoners from an enemy bunker and our only job now was getting out alive. Brian Rathomy, a comrade...a friend of mine stepped on a mine. He blew his leg to mincemeat."

Watson took a contemplative drag, the ember glowing bright in the dark night.

"Brian had a little brother in the service; a ridiculously young lad called Kyle. Part of our mission was retrieving him from capture so he's there when the mine goes off, and he's screaming and his brother is screaming and my team drags them to whatever shelter we can find. I worked through the night on that leg. Nine straight hours, two small medical packs, whatever we can scrounge from the remains and a makeshift transfusion array. Kyle's there the whole time, talking to Brian, holding his hand, helping me, giving his own blood."

Watson sat back with a sigh while Holmes listened. "Finally, at some point, the sun had risen and we're finished. Brian woke up just after because we didn't have much morphine, and couldn't put him under for long. We didn't realize there was an enemy patrol nearby who heard the mine go off hours ago," Watson tightened his grip around his cane. "We don't know they've surrounded us and called in reinforcements. We think we're in a place long abandoned. We're just waiting for Brian to wake up so I can check him and we can go."

"We're waiting and talking, and Brian wakes up. He wakes up, turns his head and looks at his brother and the next thing we know the back of Kyle's head is blown open," Watson gave a resigned, darkly ironic snort while Holmes watches. "Sniper. Brian opens his eyes and the very first thing he sees is his brother's head haloed in a red spray. We hauled Brian out on a stretcher and head for better cover and I actually have to concuss him with the butt of my gun to get him to stop screaming. The enemy comes at us from all sides; dozens of them, old guns and knives and machetes out and ready. There's bullets going all directions and we're moving from cover to cover like rats. They ambush us, start hacking into us as close range, and we're already running out of bullets; to the point where I've got my knife out. The next thing I know, one of my team steps on another mine only this one is a bounder; when it bounces up and fragments the shrapnel lodges in the back of my knee and the blast knocks me free of cover where the sniper...well." Watson gave a gallows grin. "An American Blackhawk extracted us, eventually; not before there was almost no one left," Watson's knuckles were white, even as his face remained smooth as glass. "When we got home Brian committed suicide. Nine hours of work and a crippling, and they told me not to come to the funeral." Watson turned to face Holmes, who was staring at him, grey eyes unfathomable. Watson shrugged. "It's all futile, Holmes, all of it. Everybody everywhere dies in the end. Sometimes all we've got is good memories and hope for the future, and in the meantime trusted people to rely on."

Holmes looked contemplative. "Do you feel regret?" There was not a hint of horror in his tone or expression, but Watson could tell it was there, somewhere.

"Regret that I was crippled? Every damn day. Regret that I tried to save the Rathomy's in the first place? Not a chance in hell," Watson shook his head. "Even if it was nothing but misfortune and disaster, I can't ever regret going and serving in the first place."

"Humph. Well, thank you for your starry eyed romantic assessment of the honour of death in pointless battles," Holmes replied contemptuously. "But I don't believe that three hundred million years of evolution gave us nothing but an ability to be resigned to fate. We control our own destinies, Watson. All it takes is a little observation and logic. Something which neither the Ferrier's nor Hope thought to apply. You did, because you clearly survived, but that's neither here nor there." Holmes had an odd twist to his lips. "I suppose that makes me an unfeeling narcissist."

"No," Watson smiled at the oblique compliment. "I think your confidence in the face of the unsolvable and inevitable is one of the reasons I like you. Military mindsets always have a soft spot for bloody minded stubbornness."

Holmes laughed. It was first time Watson had really heard him laugh.

"Gentlemen," Lestrade approached them, having just left the police station. "We're having Hope taken to the hospital under guard. Doctor, those medicines you got for him, will they prolong his life?"

"No," Watson negated. "Nothing can prolong it now, even a transplant probably wouldn't take. Given how advanced it must be I'm somewhat amazed he's still alive now. The medicines were to ease discomfort; palliative care only."

Lestrade sighed. "Well, the uppers will all be glad our Americans were killed by another American at least, which will give them something to tell the Consulate and get them off our backs." Lestrade shot Holmes a look. "Thank you for your assistance, Mister Holmes. Your methods once again found the truth of it. But I must say that little act about not giving us the murderers name and whatnot was going a bit too far."

"Ah, Lestrade," Holmes commiserated, delighted. "I apologise. But all the work to do your jobs for you is so dreadfully dull. I simply must take my amusements where I can," Holmes stood and gave a theatrical bow. "Goodnight, gentlemen. Watson, I'll see you on the morn, my dear fellow. And then – to Baker Street!"

"See you tomorrow Holmes." Watson called after the man's retreating back while Lestrade seethed silently next to him. "You will move your own packing boxes, right?"

Holmes gave a flourish from down the street, but Watson wasn't sure what it meant.

"I keep reminding myself that his assistance is invaluable," Lestrade muttered darkly. "I remind myself over and over and over again. Doctor, can you come in and sign a statement to the fact of Hope's state of health? We'll need it for the record. I can drive you home afterwards if you like."

...

They were in the car and on the way when the radio barked to life. "_All cars, please be advised of a structural fire, 14 Montague Street with possible rescue required. All cars in the vicinity are requested for assistance._"

Lestrade and Watson looked at each other in disbelief before Lestrade dragged the car in a squealing u-turn and headed for the scene.

It was a cataclysm. The wood was completely engulfed in flames. Fire trucks, ambulances and patrol cars littered the streets, mortared in between by onlookers viewing the spectacle. The air was alight from the glow of the inferno, flames engulfing the place outside and in, embers like fireflies dropped from the sky.

There, on a mattress under a window, was a hastily thrown conglomerate of a laptop, gas-chronometer and mass-spectrometer.

"Holmes!" Watson was out of the car and heading towards the building before he even thought about it only to be grabbed by Lestrade and dragged back.

"No, Doctor," Lestrade ordered sharply. "The place is a tinder box. There's no way in."

Watson stared at the conflagration, and felt the hollow filled with ghosts rise once more. This couldn't be happening again! He took a breath and prepared to break free of the well meaning Inspector. He didn't come this far to watch another friend die before his eyes.

"Hey!" A paramedic jogged over from seeing to a fire fighter. "If you're looking for the guy who threw that stuff out, he's out here." The medic nodded to their frantic stares. "He staggered out just after the stuff landed. We have him in the back of the ambulance on air for the smoke." He turned and led them to an open ambulance.

It was bereft of any occupant, however. A mobile oxygen humidifier with mask attached lay forlornly on one gurney to which the medic stared in surprise. "He was here just a minute ago!"

Watson and Lestrade shared a look. "I'll find him," Watson offered, grabbing the oxygen pump. "Can you get his stuff somewhere safe?"

"I'll get to it as soon as I secure the scene," Lestrade said grimly, heading for the fire chief.

Watson packed the pump under an arm and turned down the street. There was a great thumping and crashing behind him from the building falling in at last, in a sparking shower of hot colours. The street was a choking fog bank of black smoke.

It didn't take long for him to spot the weaving, coughing figure moving down the street, clutching a violin. "Holmes!" Watson forced his legs to move. "Holmes, wait!"

"Ah, Watson," Holmes waved, nearly falling over as he started coughing again. "Once again I was correct. The vile woman upped her schedule."

"Good for you, you great fool," Watson admonished as he forced Holmes back against a street light and down to the pavement, tugging the violin loose and placing beside them gently. "Why on earth did you wander off? You need medical attention." He slapped the humidifier on Holmes' nose and mouth and then checked a pulse and took stock of the taller man's general state.

The detective was soot smeared and slightly singed, but there were no burns that Watson could see, and no sign of injury or concussion. His eyes were teary and irritated, and he coughed spasmodically.

Holmes removed the mask. "I certainly wasn't going to stay there. I wouldn't put it past that ogress to try and finish the job." He broke off, coughing harshly.

Watson replaced the mask. "Holmes, you are an affront to common sense." He declared, checking the other man's red eyes.

"Are you sure about that?" Holmes parried hoarsely, taking off the mask. "After all, true common sense is so very rare. I constantly find myself to be the only man I've met who consistently applies such a thing."

Watson shoved the mask back on. "You're certainly an efficient man, Holmes. You're a Great Detective and a Great Idiot all rolled into one," Watson accused exasperatingly. "No other friend of mine has gotten into this much trouble over only four days. Or gotten me into it either!"

Holmes huffed. "You count me as a friend? Are you sure your discharge wasn't psychological?"

"Holmes," Watson slapped the mask back on again. "I was just about to walk into a building burning like a furnace for you. Don't you dare say that doesn't make us friends. Come on, we have to get you to a hospital."

Holmes gave him a long, surprised stare before he choked and spluttered for a moment. "Oh no, absolutely not," he declared mulishly. "I despise the medical profession and all it's practitioners – with one notable exception, of course. I'll not waste my time while intellectual dunderheads talk around me and lecture me on rational behaviour, as if they'd know anything about it." Holmes dismissed them. "I was not in the building more than a minute, and got the stuff out before the fire and most of the smoke had reached my end of the building. My exposure was minimal at best, which is no doubt supported by my general health now."

"Holmes, even a mild case of smoke inhalation requires you to see a doctor," Watson argued.

"Newsflash, my good man, I _am_ seeing a doctor," Holmes retorted before dissolving into coughs. He took another hit from the mask. "You can see to my care at Baker Street if you are really compelled to."

"We're not going to Baker Street, Holmes, we're going to the hospital!" Watson stated through gritted teeth.

Holmes shot him an irritated look. "We're going to Baker Street," Holmes insisted stubbornly. "Or I will tell our new landlady that you are into BDSM and need a cupboard for your whips and chains." Was all he managed before Watson snapped the mask back on.

Watson spluttered into the air while Holmes spluttered into the mask. "You wouldn't!" But Watson could see by the steely glint in those grey eyes that Holmes would, cheerfully. Besides, Holmes had been right; his exposure seemed very light and his breathing was already improving. If his health was worse than that then Watson would have dragged him to the hospital, reputation be damned. But Holmes did seem to be recovering quickly and without any complications.

A car pulled up beside them, haloing them in the headlights. "Doctor, will he live?" Lestrade called as he exited.

Holmes gave him a wave. "Ah, Lestrade. Well, I did warn you about Mrs Dudley's plans. Even when you are warned well in advance of a crime, you fail to stop it. You, sir, are a tribute to bad investigators anywhere. I hope you've at least managed to find her and arr-"

Watson gagged Holmes with the mask, pressing it firmly.

Lestrade glared. "I rephrase my question; is he going to live long enough for me to kill him myself?"

Watson heard Holmes mumble 'the violent designs upon my person never cease' under the mask and ignored him. "Unfortunately, yes. Can you drive us to Baker Street?"

Lestrade eyed Holmes coughing form. "Not a hospital?"

Watson disregarded the aura of triumph Holmes exuded, even coughing like an old car. "The smoke inhalation isn't serious and if he coughs up his own lungs because he didn't want to go then it's his own damn fault. I respect my fellow physicians, Inspector. I wouldn't want to inflict Holmes on them unless it was absolutely necessary."

Holmes glared at him while Lestrade snickered. "Right enough, Doctor."

They made an interesting picture, standing on the stoop of 221B. Watson, dishevelled and leaning heavily on his cane while supporting Holmes with his other shoulder – the taller man dusted with soot and red eyed and panting.

"Mrs Hudson," Watson gamely tried to sound normal. "My apologies for the late hour."

Watson could almost see the thought in her head. _I've made a huge mistake with these two_. But Mrs Hudson would honour the signed contract, and directed them upstairs before heading to her own apartments, muttering under her breath.

"You've really got to work on the impressions you make on people," Watson muttered as they navigated the seventeen steps.

"Why on earth would I want to do that?" Holmes retorted. "Besides, nothing can detract from the triumph of the day. The case was solved, the murderer found, and tomorrow Scotland Yard will take credit for the whole ghastly thing."

"You don't mind that?" Watson asked.

"Hardly," Holmes replied. "This was a simple, straightforward affair, not the kind of thing that would enhance my reputation any."

"Straightforward? Not likely," Watson protested. "How on earth did you find Jefferson Hope, anyway?"

"It was the taxi," Holmes explained. "There were two instances of a taxi appearing the night of the murder. A taxi that drove the killer and victim to Lauriston Gardens, as well as a taxi that the murderer was stuffed into by Rance after he returned for the ring. However, there were only tyre tracks belonging to one taxi in that street – the small, older model on one spare tyre. It was the same taxi both times; so either the driver was the killer's accomplice or the killer himself. And judging by the footprints on the puddle bed, the back door was opened by someone who had exited the driver's door, and then supported the victim up the lane. It was the murderer himself who drove Drebber there, and then drove back after the missing ring. Rance shoved him into the taxi idling in the street, and didn't think to turn his head half an inch to see if there was a driver there. The murderer was, therefore, employed as a taxi driver which, given his foreign status and the distinctive vehicle, made him easy enough to trace. When my Irregulars found him and he walked into my former rooms fitting the description perfectly, well I knew I had the man.

"I confirmed with my sources in America that Drebber had been embroiled in several religious scandals in his cult church regarding the abuse and death of women, which gave us the revenge motive tied with a woman's wedding ring. Since we knew it had happened a long time ago, I asked for information stretching back at least three decades; there were many likely candidates but only one involved with the imprisonment of a man, which would explain the time that had elapsed before revenge was sought. That man was Jefferson Hope. What confirmed the theory was the fact that Jefferson Hope had been released recently, had vanished from parole check ins and was nowhere to be found. Both Drebber and Strangerson had lodged reports with local police about being shot at and attacked from afar, and they suspected one Jefferson Hope was the culprit. The police, however, weren't able to find Hope, which is not surprising. The man was quick witted and knew how to stay ahead of pursuers."

They had paused on the upper landing while Watson fumbled for his key. "That's amazing. The way you lined it up and took apart the tangle. You should get credit for it, Holmes. You should write all this down somewhere." He got the door open, finally.

"Our Study in Scarlet came to a resounding success indeed," Holmes agreed. "But with Hope soon dead I doubt very much whether the true facts will ever be known. Scotland Yard can have all the credit they like, as long as they pay my consulting fees. What was it the roman miser said about the consciousness of success?"

"Ah, yes. _Populus me sibilat, at mihi plaudo__Ipse domi simul ac nummos contemplar in arca._" Watson recalled smoothly.

"'I don't care how much people laugh at me, so long as I am paid.' And believe me, my friend, the Yarders are fully and ruefully aware that I and my brilliant consulting brain are by no means cheaply bought." Holmes laughed, and Watson laughed with him as they entered the flat.

Mister Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson closed the door behind them, the new tenants of 221B, Baker Street.

...

The End


End file.
